The complete poetical works of Robert Southey

HAROLD B. LEE LIBRARY
aniQHAM YOUNG UNIVERSITY

PROVO. UTAH

Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2011 with funding from
Brigham Young University

http://www.archive.org/details/completepoetical1848sout

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POETICAL WORKS

OF

ROBERT SOUTHEY, LL.

D.

(LATE POET LAUREATE.)

COLLECTED BY HIMSELF.

A NEW EDITION, INCLUDING

"OLIVER NEWMAN, AND OTHER POEMS/' NOV/ FIRST PUBLISHED.

ILLUSTRATED WITH EIGHT FINE STEEL ENGRAVINGS FROM DRAWINGS BV

KENNY MEADOWS, CORBOULD, WESTALL, AND MIDDLETON.

NEW-YORK:

D. APPLETON 6c COMPANY, '200 BROADWAY

•

PHILADELPHIA:

GEORGE S. APPLETON, 148 CHESNUT STREET.

MDCCCXLVIII.

THE LliiitXi^i

BlUGHAM YOUNG UNIVEKSllV

PROVO, UTAH

CONTENTS.

Page.

Preface

JOAN OF arc; 9

Preface 9

Orii^iiial Preface 10

Dcdicaiion 13

13

17

20

25

29

34

38

44

49

53

Notes 59

THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 86

nook 1 86

II 89

III 92

Notes 94

Book I.

II.

III.

IV.

/.

Vl.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

JUVENILE AND 3IINOR POEMS, Vol. I. .

Preface

Dedication

The Tiul-mph of \Vom.\n

Dedication

Wat Tyler

Poems concerning the Slave Trade

Si.< Sonnets

To the Genius of Africa

The Sailor who liad served in 'the Slave
Trade

Verses spoken in the Theatre at Oxford, upon

the Installation of Lord Grcnvllle

Botany Bay Eclogues

Elinor

Humphrey and William

John, Samuel, and Richard

Frederick

Sonnets

monodramas

Sappho

Zimalpoca

The Wife of Fergus

Lucrelia

La Caba

The Amatory Poems of Abel Shufflebot-

tom

Love Elegies

96
96
98
98
98
101
110

no
111

111

112
113
113
114
116
117
118
121
121
121
122
123
123

124
125

Figr.

Lyric Poems 1"7

To Horror 127

To Contemplation 127

To a Friend 128

Remembrance 1-9

The Soldier's Wife 129

The Widow 129

The Chapel Ikll 130

To Hymen 130

Written on the First of December 131

Written on the First of January 131

Written on Sunday Morning 132

The Race of Banquo 13-

Written in Alentejo 13-

To Recovery 133

Youth and Age 133

The Oak of our Fathers 131-

The Battle of Pultowa 13t

The Traveller's Return 134

The Old Man's Comforts 135

Translation of a Greek Ode on Astronomy. . . 135

Gooseberry Pie 136

To a Bee 1"'"'

To a Spider 137

The Destruction of Jerusalem 137

The Death of Wallace 138

The Spanish Armada 138

St. Bartholomew's Day 139

The Holly-Tree 139

The Ebb Tide HO

The Complaints of the Poor 1 10

To Mary 1 H

To a Friend, inquiring if I woula live over my

Youth again HI

The Dead Friend 141

Songs of the American Indians 142

The Huron's Address to the Dead 142

The Peruvian's Dirge over the Body of his

Father 143

Song of the Araucans during a Thundcr-Slorm 143

Song of the Chikkasah Widow 144

The Old Chikkasah to his Grandson 144

Occasional Pieces 145

The Pauper's Funeral 145

The Soldior's Funeral 145

On a Landscape of Gaspar Poussin 146

Written on Christmas Day, 1795 116

Written after visiting the Convent of Arrabida. 147

On my own IMiniature Picture 147

On the Death of a favorite old Spaniel 147

Recollections of a Day's Journey in Spain. . . 113

To Margaret Hill. 119

Autumn 14J

The Victory 150

CONTENTS,

Page.

History 160

Wrilten iminedialely after reading the Speech

of Robert Eininct 150

Thanksgiving lor Victory 151

Stanzas written in Lady Lonsdale's Album. . . 151
Stanzas adtlrcssod to \V. 11. Turner, Esq., R. A. 152

On a Picture by J. 31. Wright, Esq 152

Stanzas 153

Imitated from tlie Persian 153

The Retuosi'ect 154

Hymn to the Penates 155

JUVENILE AND MINOR POEMS, Vol. II. . 158
Preface 158

English Eci.ogijes 159

The Old Mansion House 160

The Grandmother's Tale 161

Hannah 162

The Sailor's Mother 163

The Witch 1G5

The Ruined Cottage 166

The Last of the Family 167

The Wedding 169

The Alderman's Funeral 170

Nondescripts 172

Written the Winter after the Installation at

Oxford, 1793 172

Snufi: 172

Cool Reflections during a Midsummer Walk. . 173

The Pig 173

The Dancing Bear 174

The Filbert 174

The Cataract of Lodore 175

Robert the Rhymer's true and particular Ac-
count of Himself. 176

The Devil's Walk 176

Inscriptions 180

For a Column at Newbury 180

For a Cavern that overlooks the River Avon. . 180

For a Tablet at Silbury Hill 180

For a Monument in the New Forest 181

For a Tablet on the Banks of a Stream 181

For the Cenotaph at Ermenonvillc 181

For a Monument at Oxford 181

For a Monument in the Vale of Ewias 181

Epitaph on Algernon Sydney 182

Epitaph on King John 182

In a Forest 182

For a Monument at Tordesillas 182

For a Column at Truxillo 182

For the Cell of Honorius, at the Cork Convent,

near Cintra 182

For a Monument at Taunton 183

For a Tablet at Penshurst 183

Two Epitaphs 183

■ For a Monument at Rolissa 184

For a Monument at Vimeiro 184

At Coruria 184

Epitaph 184

To the Memory of Paul Burrard 185

For the Banks of the Douro 185

Talavera, For the Field of Battle 186

For the Deserto de Busaco 186

For the Lines of Torres Vedras 186

At Santarem 187

At Fuentes d'Onoro 187

At Barossa 187

For a Monument at Albuhera 188

Pa^e.

To the Memory of Sir William Myers 188

Epitaph 188

For the Walls of Ciudad Rodrigo 189

To the Memory of Major-Gcncral ftlackinnon. 189

For the Affair at Arroyo Molinos 190

Wrilten in an unpublished Volume of Letters,

&c. by Barre Charles Roberts 190

Two Epitaphs 190

Inscriptions for the Caledonian
Canal 191

1. At Clachnacharry 191

2. At Fort Augustus 191

3. At Banavie 192

Epitaph in Butlcigh Church 192

Epitaph 192

Dedication of the Author's Colloquies on the

Progress and Prospects of Society 193

Carmen Triumphale, for the Commence-
ment OF THE Year 1814 194

Notes 197

Odes 201

Written during the Negotiations with Bona-
parte, in January, 1814 201

Written during the War with America 202

Carmina Aulica: written in 1814, on
the Arrival of the Allied Sove-
reigns IN England 204

Ode to His Royal Highness the Prince

Regent of the United Kingdom 204

Ode to His Imperial Majesty, Alexander

the First, Emperor of all the Russias. . 206
Ode to His Majesty, Frederick William the

Fourth, King of Prussia 207

On the Battle of Algiers 209

On the Death of Queen Charlotte 209

Ode for St. George's Day 210

Ode written after the King's Visit to Ireland, . 211
Ode written after the King's Visit to Scotland. 213

The Warning Voice 214

Ode 1 214

Ode II 215

On the Portrait of Bishop Heber 217

Epistle to Allan Cunningham 219.

Op eene Verzameling van mijne Afbeel-

DINGEN 223

THALABA THE DESTROYER 224

Preface 224

Book 1 225

Notes 231

Book II 236

Notes 240

■ Book HI 243

Notes 248

Book IV 255

Notes 261

Book V 265

Notes 270

Book VI 274

Notes 278

Book VII 281

Notes 285

Book VIII 287

Notes 291

Book IX 295

Notes 300

Book X 304

Notes 308

CONTENTS.

Page.

Book XI 313

Notes 318

Book XII 319

Notes 324

MADOC 325

Preface 323

Pakt I. — Madoc in Wales 327

I. The Return to Wales 327

II. The I\larriage Feast 329

III. Cadwallon 331

IV. The Voyage 333

V. Lincoya 335

VI. Krillyab 337

Vn. The Battle 339

VIII. The Peace 341

IX. Emma 343

X. IMalhraval 344

XI. The Gorsedd 346

XII. Dincvawr 347

XIII. Llewelyn 349

XIV. Llaian 351

XV. The Excommunication 333

XVI. David 355

XVII. The Departure 356

XVIII. Rodri 338

Notes to Part 1 339

.•art II. — Madoc in Aztlan 374

I. The Return to Aztlan 374

II. The Tidings 373

III. Neolin 378

IV. Amalahla 379

V. War denounced 380

VI. The Festival of the Dead 381

VII. The Snake-God 384

VIII. The Conversion of the Hoamen 386

IX. Tlalala 387

X. The Arrival of the Gods 389

XI. The Capture 391

XII. Iloel 392

XIII. Coalcl 394

XIV. The Stone of Sacrifice 395

XV. The Battle 398

XVI. The Women 399

XVII. The Deliverance 402

XVIII. The Victory 404

XIX. The Funeral 406

XX. The Death of Coate! 407

XXI. The Sports 408

XXII. The Death of Lincoya 409

XXII I. Caradoc and Sencna 410

XXIV. The Embassy 411

XXV. The Lake Fight 412

XXVI. The Close of the Century 413

XXVII. The .Migration of the Aztecas 416

Notes to Part II 420

BALLADS AND METRICAL TALES, Vol. L 434

Preface 434

Mary, the Maid of the Inn 435

Donica 436

Rudigcr 138

Jaspar t-JO

Lord William 442

St. Patrick's Purgatory 443

The Cross Roads 444

God's Judgment on a wicked Bishop 4i7

Tuff.

The Pious Painter : Part 1 448

Part II 449

St. Michael's Chair 450

King Henry V. and the Hermit of Dreux. . . .451

Old Chrislovals Advice 451

Cornelius Agrippa I.!>2

King Charlemain '.''J

St. Romuald I-W

The King of the Crocodiles : Parti !.';ii

Part II 457

The Rose 4.77

The Lover's Roclc 4.58

459

'tCO

Garci Ferraniioz ; Part I.
Part II

King Ramiro 461

The Inchcape Rock 464

The Well of St. Kcyne 46.5

Bishop Bruno 4G6

The Battle of Blenheim 467

A true Ballad of St. Antidius, the Pope, and

the Devil 468

Gonzalo Hermiguez 470

Queen Orraca, and the Five Martyrs of Mo-
rocco 470

The Old Woman of Berkeley 472

The Surgeon's Warning 475

Henry the Hermit 476

St. Gualbcrto 477

Notes 480

The March to Moscow 483

Brough Bells 484

Queen JIary's Christening 486

Roprecht the Robber : Part 1 488

Part II 489

Part III 489

Part IV 490

The Young Dragon : Part 1 492

Part II 493

Part III 494

Part IV 495

Epilogue to the Young Dragon 497

BALLADS AND METRICAL TALES, Vol. II. 498
Advertisement 498

A Tale of Paraguay 498

Preface 498

Dedication 500

Proem. 501

Canto 1 502

Canto II 50C

Canto III 611

Canto IV 5i6

Notes 322

All for Love 3,33

Dedication 333

Notes 3'"

The Pilgrim to Compostella 351

Prelude 351

Introduction 3.>1

The Legend : Part 1 355

Part II 556

Part III 5.57

Part IV 5.57

Notes 5.59

THE CURSE OF KEHAMA 565

Preface 365

Original Preface 567

CONTENTS,

Page.

The Funeral ^^'^

I

II. Tlic Curse
III. The Recovery ^"^^

5G9

572
674
576

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

Page.

XXIV. Roderick and Count Julian 702

XXV. Roderick in Battle 704

Notes ^^^

IV. The Departure

V. The Separation

VI. Casyapa

The Swerga ^'°

The Sacrifice 581

The Home Scene ^^^

Mount Meru 584

The Enchantress 587

XII. The Sacrifice completed 690

XIII. The Retreat 591

XIV. Jaga-Naut 593

XV. The City of Baly 595

XVI. The Ancient Sepulchres 598

XVII. Baly GOl

XVIII. Kehaina's Descent 602

XIX. Mount Calasay 604

XX. The Embarkation 60G

The World's End G07

The Gate of Padalon 608

Padalon 610

The Amreeta G13

616

747

747
747

XXI.
XXII.

XXIII.
XXIV.

Notes. .

THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE TO WATER-
LOO

Argument

Proem

Part L — The Journey '^■^^

I. Flanders ^"^^

II. Brussels '^52

III. The Field of Battle ^53

IV. The Scone of War 757

P.viiT II. — The Vision 769

I. The Tower 759

II. The Evil Prophet 762

III. The Sacred

Mountain 764

RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS.

646

646

Preface

Original Preface 649

I. Roderick and Romano 649

Roderick in Solitude

Adosinda

The Monastery of St. Felix.
Roderick and Siverian. . . .
Roderick in Times past.

n.

HI.

IV.
V.
VI.
VII. Roderick and Pclayo 665

652
651
657
660
663

IV. The Hopes of Man.
Notes

767
771

CARMEN NUPTIALE. — The Lay of the
Laureate

Proem

The Dream

Epilogue

L'Envoy

Notes

VIII. Alphonso.

666

FUNERAL SONG, for

i.otte of Wales. .

THE Princess Char-

777
777
779
784
785
785

786

JUDGMENT 788

788

IX. Florinda 668

X. Roderick and Florinda 669

XI. Count Pedro's Castle 673

XII. The Vow 674

XIII. Count Eudon 676

XIV. The Rescue 678

XV. Roderick at Cangas 680

XVI. Covadonga 682

XVII. Roderick and Siverian 685

XVIII. The Acclamation 687

XIX. Roderick and Rusilla 690

XX. The Moorish Camp 691

XXI. The Fountain in the Forest 694

XXII. The Moorish Council 698

XXIII. The Vale of Covadonga 700

■b"
I.

II.

HI.

IV.

V.

VI.

788

795
796

VISION OF

Dedication. .

New Preface.

Original Preface 2tl

The Trance.

The Vault. .

The Awakening 797

The Gate of Heaven 798

The Accusers '^9

The Absolvers ^00

VII. The Beatification ^01

VIII. The Sovereigns ^02

IX. The Elder Worthies 803

X. The Worthies of the Georgian Age. . . 803

XI. The Young Spirits 804

XII. The Meeting 805

806

Notes

Specimens, &c 809

OLIVER NEWMAN, A NEW ENCxLAND TALE.

Page.

Preface f\

I. Funeral at Sea ^'■^

II. The Voyage 813

III. Cape Cod 816

IV. The Captives Ransomed 818

V. The Portrait 821

VI. Future Prospects 822

VII. The Indian War 825

VIII. Parting Words 829

IX. Journey through the Forest 830

■V- 832

Page.

Appendix to Oliver Newman 832

Miscellaneous Poetical Remains :
Fragmentary Thoughts occasioned by his

Son's Death 835

Short Passages of Scripture, rhythmically

arranged or paraphrased 835

Little Book, in Green and Gold 838

Lines written in the Album of Rotha Q,. . . ■ 838

Imagination and Reality 839

Madrigal, from Luis Martin 839

Mohammed ; a Fragment 839

HCQ)IfgIERT ^^©OTIIET ESQ? IL.1L.1E),

THE

POETICAL WORKS

OF

ROBERT SOUTHEY

PREFACE.

At the age of sixty-three I have undertaken
to collect and edite my Poetical Works, with
the last corrections that I can expect to bestow
upon them. They have obtained a reputation
equal to my wishes; and I have this ground for
hoping it may not be deemed horeaflcr more than
commensurate with their deserts, that it has been
gained without ever accommodating myself to
the taste or fashion of the times. Tiius to collect
and revise them is a duty which I owe to that
part of the Public by whom they have been
auspiciously received, and to those who will take
a lively concern in my good name when I shall
have departed.

The arrangement was the first thing to be con-
sidered. In this the order wherein the respective
poems were written has been observed, so far as
was compatible with a convenient classification.
Such order is useful to tliose who read critically,
and desire to trace the progress of an author's
mind in his writings ; and by affixing dates to
the minor pieces, under whatever head they are
disposed, the object is sufficiently attained.

Next came the question of correction. There
was no difficulty with those poems which were
composed after the author had acquired his art, (so
far as he has acquired it,) and after his opinions
were matured. It was only necessary to bear in
mind the risk there must ever be of injuring a
poem by verbal alterations made long after it was
written ; inasnmch as it must be impossible to
recall the precise train of thought in which any
passage was conceived, and the considerations
upon wliich not the single verse alone, but the
whole sentence, or paragraph, had been con-
structed : but with regard to more important
changes, there could be no danger of introducing
any discrepance in style. With juvenile pieces
the case is different. From tiicso llic faults of
diction have been weeded, wherever it could be
done without more trouble than the composition
originally cost, and than the piece itself was

worth. But inherent faults of conception and
structure are incurable ; 'and it would have been
mere waste of time to recompose what it was im-
possible otherwise to amend.

If these poems had been now for the first time
to bo made public, there are some among them
which, instead of being committed to the press,
would have been consigned to the flames ; not for
any di.sgrace which could be reflected upon me
by the crude compositions of my youth, nor for
any harm which they could possibly do the reader,
but merely that they might not cumber the col-
lection. But '■''Jicscit vox missarcvcrti." Pirated
editions would hold out as a recommendation,
that they contained what I had chosen to sup-
press, and thus it becomes prudent, and therefore
proper, that such pieces should be retained.

It has ever been a rule with me when 1 have
imitated a passage, or borrowed an expression, to
acknowledge the specific obligation. Upon the
present occasion it behoves me to state the more
general and therefore more important obligations
which I am conscious of owing either to my pred-
ecessors or my contemporaries.

My first attempts in verse were much too earl}'
to be imitative ; but I was fortunate enough to find
my way, when very young, into the rigiit patli.
I read the "Jerusalem Delivered " and the "Or-
lando Furioso, " again and again, in Hoole's trans-
lations ; it was for the sake of their stories that I
perused and re-perused these poems with ever-
new delight; and by bringing them thus within
my reach in boyhood, the translator rendered me
a service which, when I look back upon my in-
tellectual life, I cannot estimate too highly. I
owe him much also for his notes, not only for the
information concerning other Italian romances
which they imparted, but also for introducing me
to Spenser; — how early, an incident which I
well remember may show. Going with a relation
into Bull's circulating library at Batli, (an excel-
lent one for those day.s,) and asking wlicthcr they

PREFACE.

had the " Faery Queen," the person who managed
tlie shop said, " Yes, they liad it, but it was in
obsolete language, and the young gentleman
would not understand it." But I, who had
learned all I then knew of the history of England
from Shakespear, and who had moreover read
Beaumont and Fletcher, found no difficulty in
Spenser's English, and felt in the beauty of his
versification a charm in poetry of which I had
never been fully sensible before. From that time
1 took Spenser for my master. I drank also be-
times of Chaucer's well. The taste which had
been acquired in that school was confirmed by
Percy's "Reliques" and Warton's "History of
English Poetry;" and a little later by Homer
and the Bible. It was not likely to be corrupted
afterwards.

My school-boy verses savored of Gray, Mason,
and my predecessor Warton ; and in the best of
my juvenile pieces it may be seen how much the
writer's mind had been imbued by Akenside. I
am conscious also of having derived much benefit
at one time from Cowper, and more from Bowles ;
for which, and for the delight which his poems
gave me at an age when we are most susceptible
of such delight, my good friend at Bremhill, to
whom I was then and long afterwards personally
unknown, will allow me to make this grateful and
cordial acknowledgment.

My obligation to Dr. Sayers is of a different
kind. Every one who has an ear for metre and a
lieart for poetry, must have felt how perfectly the
metre of Collins's "Ode to Evening" is in accord-
ance with the imagery and the feeling. None
of the experiments which were made of other
unrhymcd stanzas proved successful. They were
either in strongly-marked and well-known
measures, which unavoidably led the reader to
expect rhyme, and consequently balked him
when he looked for it ; or they were in stanzas
as cumbrous as they were ill constructed. Dr.
Sayers went upon a different principle, and suc-
ceeded admirably. I read his " Dramatic Sketches
of Northern Mythology" when they were first
published, and convinced myself, when 1 had
acquired some skill in versification, that the kind
of verse in which hie choruses were composed was
not less applicable to narration than to lyrical
poetry. Soon after I had begun the Arabian
romance, for which this measure seemed the most
appropriate vehicle, " Gebir" fell into my hands ;
and my verse was greatly improved by it, both
in vividness and strength. Several years elapsed
before I knew that Walter Landor was the author,
and more before I had the good fortune to meet
the person to whom I felt myself thus beholden.
The days which I have passed with him in the
Vale of Ewias. at Como, and lastly in the neigh-

borhood of Bristol, are some of those which have
left with me "a joy for memory."

1 have thus acknowledged all the specific obli-
gations to my elders or contemporaries in the art,
of which 1 am distinctly conscious. The advan-
tages arising from intima,te intercourse with those
who were engaged in similar pursuits cannot be in
like manner specified, because in their nature they
are imperceptible ; but of such advantages no man
has ever possessed more or greater, than at differ-
ent times it has been my lot to enjoy. Personal
attachment first, and family circumstances after-
wards, connected me long and closely with Mr.
Coleridge ; and three-and-thirty years have rati-
fied a friendship with Mr. Wordsworth, which we
believe will not terminate with this life, and
which it is a pleasure for us to know will be con-
tinued and cherished as an heir-loom by those who
are dearest to us both.

When I add, what has been the greatest of all
advantages, that I have passed more than half my
life in retirement, conversing with books rather
than men, constantly and unweariably engaged in
literary pursuits, communing with my own heart,
and taking that course which, upon mature con-
sideration, seemed best to myself, I have said every
thing necessary to account for the characteristics
of my poetry, whatever they may be.

It was in a mood resembling in no slight degree
that wherewith a person in sound health, botli of
body and mind, makes his will and sets his
worldly affairs in order, that 1 entered upon the
serious task of arranging and revising the whole
of my poetical works. What, indeed, was it but
to bring in review before me the dreams and as-
pirations of my youth, and the feelings whereto 1
had given that free utterance which by the usages
of this world is permitted to us in poetry, and in
poetry alone .' Of the smaller pieces in this col-
lection there is scarcely one concerning which 1
cannot vividly call to mind when and where it was
composed. 1 have perfect recollection of the spots
where many, not of the scenes only, but of the
images which 1 have described from nature, were
observed and noted. And how would it be possi-
ble for me to forget the interest taken in these
poems, especially the longer and more ambitious
works, by those persons nearest and dearest to me
tlien, who witnessed their growth and completion '
Well may it be called a serious task thus to resus-
citate the past! But, serious though it be, it is not
painful to one who knows that the end of his
journey cannot be far distant, and, by the blessing
of God, looks on to its termination with sure and
certain hope.

Keswick, 10th May, 1837.

JOAN OF ARC.

3onn of Ere.

EIS OIQNOS APISTOS AMTNESeAl IIEPI IIATPHr Homer

Pcrlego, cognosces animiim sine viribus alaa
Ingeiiii explicuisse Icves, nam vera fatcbor ;
Iniplumem tcpido prfficcps me g.oria nido
Expulit, et ca'lo jussil volitare remoto.
Poenitct inctfpti, cursum revocare juvente
Si liccat, mansiiise domi cum tempore nervos
Consolidasse velim Petrarca

PREFACE TO JOAN OF ARC.

Earlv in July, 1793, 1 happened to fall in con-
versation, at Oxford, with an old schoolfellow upon
the story of Joan of Arc ; and it then struck me as
being singularly well adapted for a poem. The
long vacation commenced immediately afterwards.
As soon as I reached home I formed the outline
of a plan, and wTote about three hundred lines.
The remainder of the month was passed in trav-
elling ; and I was too much engaged in new scenes
and circumstances to proceed, even in thought,
with what had been broken off. In August 1
went to visit my old schoolfellow, Mr. Grosvcnor
Bedford, who, at that time, resided with his pa-
rents at Brixton Causew.ay, about four miles on
tlic Surrey side of the metropolis. Tlioro, the day
after completing my nineteenth year, 1 resumed
the undertaking, and there, in six weeks from that
day, finished what I called an Epic Poem in twelve
books.

My progress would not have been so rapid had
it not been for the opportunity of retirement which
I enjoyed there, and the encouragement that I
received. In those days London had not extended
in that direction farther than Kennington, beyond
which place the scene changed suddenly, and
there was an air and appearance of country which
might now be sought in vain at a far greater dis-
tance from town. There was nothing indeed to
remind one that London was so near, except the
smoke which overhung it. Mr. Bedford's res-
idence was situated upon the edge of a common,
on which shady lanes opened leading to the neigh-
boring villages (for such tliey were then) of Cam-
bcrwell, Dulwich, and Clapham, and to Norwood.
The view in front was bounded by the Surrey
hills. Its size and structure showed it to be one
of those good houses built in the early part of the
last century by persons who, having realized a
respectable fortune in trade, were wise enough to
be contented with it, and retire to pass the evening
of tlieir lives in the enjoyment of leisure and tran-
quillitv. Tranquil indeed the place was ; for the
neighborhood did not extend l)oyond half a dozen
families, and the London style and habits of vis-
2

iting had not obtained among them. Uncle Toby
himself might have enjoyed his rood and a half of
ground there, and not have had it known. A fore-
court separated the house from the foot-path and
the road in front; behind, there was a large and
well-stocked garden, with other spacious premises,
in which utility and ornament were in some degree
combined. At the extremity of the garden, and
under the shade of four lofty linden trees, was a
summer-house looking on an ornamented grass-
plot, and fitted up as a conveniently habitable
room. That summer-house was allotted to me,
nnd tliere my mornings were passed at the desk.
Whether it exists now or not, I am ignorant. The
property has long since passed into other hands.
Tlie common is enclosed and divided by rectangu-
lar hedges and palings ; rows of brick houses have
supplanted the shade of oaks and elms ; the brows
of the Surrey hills bear a parapet of modern villas,
and the face of the whole district is changed.

I was not a little proud of my performance.
Young poets arc, or at least used to be, as am-
bitious of producing an epic poem, as stage-stricken
youths of figuring in Romeo or Hamlet. It had
been the earliest of my day-dreams. I had ben-un
many such ; but this was the first which had been
completed, and I was too young and too ardent to
perceive or suspect that the execution was as
crude as the design. In the course of the autumn
I transcribed it fairly from the first draught, making
no other alterations or corrections of any kind than
suoli as suggested themselves in the act of tran-
scription. Upon showing it to the friend in con-
versation with whom the design had originated,
he said, " I am glad you have written this; it will
serve as a store where you will find good passages
for better poems." His opinion of it was more
judicious than mine ; but what there was good in
it or promising, would not have b(>cn transplantable.

Toward the close of 1794, it was announced as
to be publislied by subscription in a quarto volume,
price one guinea. Shortly afterwards I became
acquainted witli my fellow-townsman, Mr. Joseph
Cottle, who had recently commenced business as
a bookseller in our native citj' of Bristol. One
evening I read to him part of the poem, without

10

PREFACE TO JOAN OF ARC.

any Uiought of" making a proposal concerning it, j
or expectation of receiving one. He, liowever,
offered mo fifty guineas for tlie copyright, and fifty
copies for my subscribers, which was more than
tiie list amounted to ; and the offer was accepted
;iH ))ro:nplly as it was made. It can rarely happen
that a young autlior should meet with a bookseller
as inexperienced and as ardent as himself, and it
would be still more extraordinary if such mutual
indiscretion did not bring with it cause for regret
to both. But this transaction was the commence-
ment of an intimacy which has continued, without
the slightest shade of displeasure at any time, on
cither side, to the present day.

At that time, few books were printed in tlie
country, and it was seldom indeed that a quarto
volume issued from a provincial press. A font of
new types was ordered for what was intended to
be tlie handsomest book that Bristol had ever yet
sent forth ; and when the paper arrived, and the
printer was ready to commence his operations,
nothing had been done toward preparing the poem
for the press, except that a few verbal alterations
had been made. I was not, however, without
misgivings, and when the first proof-sheet was
brought me, the more glaring faults of the com-
position stared me in the face. But the sight of a
well-printed page, which was to be set off" with all
the advantages that fine wove paper and hot-press-
ing could impart, put me in spirits, and I went to
work with good-will. About half the first book
was left in its original state ; the rest of the poem
was re-cast and re-composed while the printing
went on. This occupied six months. I corrected
tlie concluding sheet of the poem, left the Preface
in the publisher's hands, and departed for Lisbon
by way of Coruria and Madrid.

Tlie Preface was written with as little discretion
as had been shown in publishing the work itself
It stated how rapidly the poem had been produced,
and that it had been almost re-composed during
its progress through the press. This was not said
as taking merit for haste and temerity, nor to
excuse its faults, — only to account for them. But
here I was liable to be misapprehended, and
likely to be misrepresented. The public indeed
care neither for explanations nor excuses ; and
such particulars might not unfitly be deemed un-
becoming in a young man, though they may be
excused, and even expected, from an old authoi,
who, at the close of a long career, looks upon him-
self as belonging to the past. Omitting these pas-
sages, and the specification of what Mr. Coleridge
had written in the second book, (which was with-
drawn in the next edition,) the remainder of the
Preface is here subjoined. It states the little
which I had been able to collect concerning the
subject of the poem, gives what was then my own
view of Joan of Arc's character and history, and
expresses with overweening confidence the opin-
ions which the writer entertained concerning those
poets whom it was his ambition not to imitate, but
to follow. — It cannot bo necessary to say, that
some of those opinions have been modified, and
others completely changed, as he grew older.

ORIGINAL PKEF.\CE.

The history of Joan of Arc is as mysterious as
it is remarkable. That slie believed herself inspired,
few will deny ; that she was inspired, no one will
venture to assert ; and it is difficult to believe that
she was herself imposed upon by Charles and Du-
nois. That she discovered the King when he dis-
guised himself among the courtiers to deceive her,
and that, as a proof of her mission, she demanded
a sword from a tomb in the church of St. Catha-
rine, are facts in which all historians agree. If
this had been done by collusion, the Maid must
have known herself an impostor, and with that
knowledge could not have performed tlie enter-
prise she undertook. Enthusiasm, and that of no
common kind, was necessary, to enable a young
maiden at once to assume the profession of arms,
to lead her troops to battle, to fight among the
foremost, and to subdue with an inferior force an
enemy then believed invincible. It is not possible
that one who felt herself the puppet of a part)',
could have performed these things. The artifices
of a court could not have persuaded her that she
discovered Charles in disguise ; nor could they
have prompted her to demand the sword which
they might have hidden, without discovering the
deceit. The Maid then was not knowingly an
impostor ; nor could she have been the instrument
of the court ; and to say that she believed herself
inspired, will neither account for her singling out
the King, or prophetically claiming the sword.
After crowning Charles, she declared that her
mission was accomplished, and demanded leave
to retire. Enthusiasm would not have ceased
here ; and if they who imposed on her could per-
suade her still to go with their armies, they could
still have continued her delusion.

This mystcriousness renders the story of Joan
of Arc peculiarly fit for poetry. The aid of angels
and devils is not necessary to raise her above man-
kind ; she has no gods to lackey her, and inspire
her with courage, and heal her wounds : the Maid
of Orleans acts wholly from the workings of her
own mind, from the deep feeling of inspiration.
The palpable agency of superior powers would de-
stroy the obscurity of her character, and sink her
to the mere heroine of a fairy tale.

The alterations which I have made in the his-
tory are few and trifling. The death of Salisbury
is placed later, and of the Talbots earlier than they
occurred. As the battle of Patay is the concluding
action of the Poem, I have given it all the previous
solemnity of a settled engagement. Whatever
appears miraculous is asserted in history, and my
authorities will be found in the notes.

It is the common fault of Epic Poems, that we
feel little interest for the heroes they celebrate.
Tlie national vanity of a Greek or a Roman might
have been gratified by the renown of Achilles or
iEneas; but to engage the unprejudiced, there
must be more of human feelings than is generally
to be found in the character of a warrior. From
this objection, the Odyssey alone may be excepted.

PREFACE TO JOAN OF ARC.

Ulysses appears as tlic fatlicr and the liusband,
and the afl'ections are enlisted on his side. The
judirinent must applaud the well-digested plan
and splendid execution of the Iliad, but the heart
always bears testimony to the merit of the
Odyssey : it is the poem of nature, and its per-
sonages inspire love rather tlian coiinnand admira-
tion. The good herdsman Eumocus is worth a
thousand heroes. Homer is, indeed, the best of
poets, for he is at once dignified and simple ; but
Pope has disguised him in fop-finery, and Cowper
has stri])ped him naked.

Tliere are few readers who do not prefer Turnus
to iEneas — a fugitive, suspected of treason, who
negligently left his wife, seduced Dido, deserted
her, and then forcibly took Lavinia from her be-
trothed husband. What avails a man's piety to
the gods, if in all his dealings with men he prove
himself a villain? If we represent Deity as com-
manding a bad action, this is not exculpating the
man, but criminating the God.

The ill-chosen subjects of Lucan and Statius
have prevented them from acquiring the popularity
they would otherwise have merited ; yet in de-
tached parts, the former of these is perhaps un-
equalled, certainly unexcelled. I do not scruple
to prefer Statius to Virgil ; with inferior taste,
he appears to me to possess a richer and more
powerful imagination ; his images are strongly
conceived, and clearly painted, and the force of
his language, while it m.nkes the reader feel,
proves that the author felt himself.

The power of story is strikingly exemplified in
the Italian heroic poets. They please universally,
even in translations, when little but the story re-
mains. In proportioning his characters, Tasso
has erred ; Godfrey is the hero of the poCIn, Ri-
naldoof the poet, and Tan-red of the reader. Sec-
ondary characters should not be introduced, like
Gyas and Cloanthus, mcnly to fill a procession ;
neither should they be so prominent as to throw
the principal into shade.

The lawless magic of Ariosto, and the singular
theme as well as the singular excellence of Milton,
render it impossible to deduce any rules of epic
poetry from these authors. So likewise with
Spenser, the favorite of my childhood, from whose
frequent perusal I have always found increased
delight.

Against the machinery of Camocns, a heavier
charge must be brought than that of profaneness
or incongruity. His floating island is but a float-
ing brothel, and no beauty can make atonement
for licentiousness. From this accusation, none
but a translator would attempt to justify him ; but
Camoens had the most abk; of translators. The
Lusiad, though excellent in parts, is uninteresting
as a whole : it is read with little emotion, and
remembered with little pleasure. But it was com-
posed in the anguish of disappointed hopes, in
the fatigues of war, and in a country far from all
he loved ; and we should not forget, that as the
Poet of Portugal was among the most unfortunate
of men, so he should be ranked among the most
respectable. Neither his own coimfry or Spain

has yet produced his equal : his heart was broken
by calamity, but the spirit of integrity and inde-
pendence never forsook Camoens.

1 have endeavored to avoid what appears to me
the common fault of epic poems, and to render the
Maid of Orleans interesting. With tliis intent 1
liave given her, not the passion of love, but the
remembrance of subdued affection, a lingering of
human feelings not inconsistent with the enthu-
siasm and holiness of her character.

The multitude of obscure epic writers copy with
the most gross servility their ancient models. If
a tempest occurs, some envious spirit procures it
from the God of the winds or the God of the sea.
Is there a town besieged ? the eyes of the hero
are opened, and he beholds the powers of Heaven
assisting in the attack ; an angel is at hand to
heal his wounds, and the leader of the enemy in
his last combat is seized with the sudden cowardice
of Hector. Even Tasso is too often an imitator.
But notwithstanding the censure of a satirist, the
name of Tasso will still be ranked among the best
heroic poets. Perhaps Boileau only condemned
him for the sake of an antithesis ; it is with such
writers, as with those who afft'ct point in their
conversation — they will always sacrifice truth to
the gratification of their vanity.

1 have avoided what seems useless and wearying
in other poems, and my readers will find no de-
scriptions of armor, no muster-rolls, no geographi-
cal catalogues, lion, tiger, bull, bear, and boar
similes, Phoebuses or Auroras. And where in
battle 1 have particularized the death of an indi-
vidual, it is not, I hope, like the common lists of
killed and wounded.

It has been established as a necessary rule for
the epic, that the subject should be national. To
tliis rule I have acted in direct opposition, and
chosen for the subject of my poem the defeat of
the English. If there be any readers who can
wish success to an unjust cause, because their
country was engaged in it, 1 desire not their ap-
probation.

In Millin's National Antiquities of France, 1
find that M. Laverdj- wa?, in 1791, occupied in
collecting whatever has been written concerning
the Maid of Orleans. 1 have anxiously looked for
his work, but it is probable, considering the tumults
of the intervening period, that it has not been
accomplished. Of the various productions to the
memory of Joan of Arc, 1 have only collected a
few titles, and, if report may be trusted, need not
fear a heavier condemnation than to be deemed
equally bad. A regular canon of St. Euverte has
written what is said to be a very bad poem, en-
titled the Modern Amazon. There is a prose
tragedy called Im Pncellc d' Orleans, variously
attributed to Benserade, to Boyer, and to Me-
nardiere. The abbe Daubignac published a prose
tragedy with the same title in 1642. There is
one under the name of Jean Barucl of 1581, and
another printed anonymously at Rouen, 1006.
Among the manuscripts of the queen of Sweden
in the Vatican, is a dramatic piece in verse called
Le Mijslerc (III Sifge d' Orleans. In these modern

12

PREFACE TO JOAN OF ARC.

times, says Millin, all Paris has run to the theatre
of Nicolet to see a pantomime entitled Lc Fanieux
Siege de la Pucelle d' Orleans. I may add, that,
after the publication of this poem, a pantomime
upon the same Kubject was brought forward at
Covent-Garden Theatre, in which the heroine,
like Don Juan, was carried off by devils and pre-
cipitated alive into hell. I mention it, because the
feelings of the audience revolted at such a catas-
trophe, and, after a few nights, an angel was in-
troduced to rescue her.

But among tlie number of worthless poems
upon this subject, there are two which are un-
fortunately notorious, — the Pucelles of Chapelain
and Voltaire. I have had patience to peruse the
first, and never have been guilty of looking into
the second ; it is well said by George Herbert,

Make not thy sport abuses, for the fly
Tliat feeds on dung, is colored thereby.

On the eighth of May, the anniversary of its
deliverance, an annual fete is held at Orleans ;
and monuments have been erected there and at
Rouen to the memory of the Maid. Her family
was ennobled by Charles ; but it should not be
forgotten in the history of this monarch, that in
the hour of misfortune he abandoned to her iate
the woman who had saved his kingdom.

Bristol, November, 1795.

The poem, thus crudely conceived, rashly
prefaced, and prematurely hurried into the world,
was nevertheless favorably received, owing chiefly
to adventitious circumstances. A work of the
same class, with as much power and fewer faults,
if it were published now, would attract little or no
attention. One thing which contributed to bring
it into immediate notice was, that no poem of
equal pretension had appeared for many years,
except Glover's Athenaid, which, notwithstanding
the reputation of his Leonidas, had been utterly
neglected. But the chief cause of its favorable
reception was, that it was written in a republican
spirit, such as may easily be accounted for in a
youth whose notions of liberty were taken from
the Greek and Roman writers, and who was ig-
norant enough of history and of human nature to
believe, that a happier order of things had com-
menced with the independence of the United
States, and would be accelerated by the French
Revolution. Such opinions were then as unpopu-
lar in England as they deserved to be ; but they
were cherished by most of the critical journals,
and conciliated for me the good-will of some of the
most influential writers who were at that time
engaged in periodical literature, though 1 was
personally unknown to thorn. Tliey bestowed
upon the poem abundant praise, passed over most
of its manifold faults, and noticed others with in-
dulgence. Miss Seward wrote some verses upon
it in a strain of the highest eulogy and the bitter-
est invective ; they were sent to the Morning

Chronicle, and the editor (Mr. Perry) accom-
panied their insertion with a vindication of the
opinions which she had so vehemently denounced.
Miss Seward was then in liigh reputation ; the
sincerity of her praise was proved by the sever-
ity of her censure ; and nothing could have been
more serviceable to a young author than her no-
tice, thus indignantly, but also thus generously,
bestowed. The approbation of the reviewers
served as a passport lor the poem to America, and
it was reprinted there while I was revising it for a
second edition.

A work, in which the author and the book-
seller had engaged with equal imprudence, thus
proved beneficial to both. It made me so advan-
tageously known as a poet, that no subsequent
hostility on the part of the reviews could pull
down the reputation which had been raised by
their good offices. Before that hostility took its
determined character, the charge of being a hasty
and careless writer was frequently brought against
me. Yet to have been six months correcting what
was written in six weeks, was some indication of
patient industry ; and of this the second edition
gave further evidence. Taking for a second motto
the words of Erasmus, (It homines ita libros, in-
dies scipsis meliores fieri oportet, I spared no pains
to render the poem less faulty both in its con-
struction and composition ; 1 wrote a new begin-
ning, threw out much of what had remained of
the original draught, altered more, and endeavored,
from all the materials which 1 had means of con-
sulting, to make myself better acquainted with
the manners and circumstances of the fifteenth
century. Thus the second edition differed almost
as much from the first, as that from the copy
which was originally intended for publication.
Less extensive alterations were made in two sub-
sequent editions ; the fifth was only a reprint of
the fourth ; by that time 1 had become fully sen-
sible of its great and numerous faults, and request-
ed the reader to remember, as tlie only apology
which could be offered for them, that the poem
was written at the age of nineteen, and published
at one-and-twenty. My intention then was, to
take no further pains in correcting a work of
which the inherent defects were incorrigible ; and
1 did not look into it again for many years.

But now, when about to perform what at my
acre may almost be called the testamentary task of
revising, in all likelihood for the last time, those
works by which it was my youthful ambition " to
be forever known," and part whereof 1 dare be-
lieve has been " so written to after times as they
should not willingly let it die," it appeared proper
that this poem, through which the author had been
first made known to the public, two-and-forty
years ago, should lead the way ; and the thought
that it was once more to pass through the press
under my own inspection, induced a feeling in
some respects resembling that with which it had
been first delivered to the printer — and yet how
different! for not in hope and ardor, nor with
the impossible intention of rendering it what it
might have been had it been planned and execu-

BOOK I.

JOAN OF ARC,

13

UhI ill iiiiddlc liff, did I resolve to correct it once
iiioro tliroughout; but lor tlie purpose of iiiukiiig
it more consistent with itself in diction, and less
inconsistent in other things with the well-\vei<rhed
opinions of my maturer years. The faults of
effort, which may generally be regarded as hope-
ful indications in a juvenile writer, have been
mostly lefl as they were. The faults of language
which remained from the first edition have been
removed, so that in this respect the whole is
sufticiently in keeping. And for those which
expressed the political prejudices of a young man
who had too little knowledge to suspect his own
ignorance, they have either been expunged, or
altered, or such substitutions have been made for
them as harmonize with the pervading spirit of
the poem, and are nevertheless in accord with
those opinions which the author has maintained
for thirty years, through good and evil report, in
the maturity of his judgment as well as in tlio
sincerity of his heart.

Keswick, August 30, 1837.

TO EDITH SOUTHEY

Edith ! I brought thee late a humble gift.

The songs of earlier youth ; it was a wreath

With many an unripe blossom garlanded

And many a weed, yet mingled with some flowers

Which will not wither. Dearest ! now I bring

A worthier offering ; thou wilt prize it well,

For well thou know'st amid what painful cares

My solace was in this : and though to me

There is no music in the hollowness

Of connnon praise, yet well content am I

Now to look back upon my youth's green prime.

Nor idly, nor unprofitably past,

Imping in such adventurous essay

The wing, and strengthening it for steadier flight.

KuRTON, near Christ Church, 1797.

THE FIRST BOOK.

There was high feasting held at Vaucouleur,
For old Sir Robert had a famous guest.
The Bastard Orleans ; and the festive hours,
Cheer'd with the Trobador's sweet minstrelsy,
Pass'd gayly at his hospitable board.
But not to share the hospitable board
And hear sweet minstrelsy, Dunois had sought
Sir Robert's hall ; he came to rouse Lorraine,
And glean what force the wasting war had left
For one last effort. Little had the war
Left in Lorraine, but age, and youth unripe
For slaughter yet, and widows, and young maids
Of widow'd loves. And now with his great guest
The Lord of Vaucouleur sat communing
On what might profit France, and found no hope,
Despairing of their country, when he heard

\n old man and a maid awaited him
In the castle-hall. He knew the old man well,
His vassal Claude ; and at his bidding Claude
Approach'd, and after meet obeisance made,
Bespake Sir Robert.

" Good my Lord, I come
With a strange tale ; I pray you pardon me
If it should seem impertinent, and like
An old man's weakness. But, in truth, this Maid
Hath with such boding thoughts impress'd my heart,
I think 1 could not longer sleep in peace
Gainsaying what she sought. She saith that God
Bids her go drive the Englishmen from France !
Her parents mock at her and call her crazed,
And father Regnier says she is possess'd ; —
But 1, who know that never thought of ill
Found entrance in her heart, — for, good my Lord,
From her first birth-day she hath been to me
As mine own child, — and I am an old man,
Who have seen many moon-struck in my time,
And some who were by evil Spirits vex'd, —
I, Sirs, do think that there is more in this.
And who can tell but, in these perilous times.
It may please God, — but hear the Maid yourselves,
For if, as 1 believe, this is of Heaven,
My silly speech doth wrong it."

While he spake,
Curious they mark'd the Damsel. She appear'd
Of eighteen years; there was no bloom of youth
Upon her cheek, yet had the loveliest hues
Of health with lesser fascination fi.x'd
The gazer's eye ; for wan the Maiden was.
Of saintly paleness, and there seem'd to dwell
In the strong beauties of her countenance
Something that was not earthly.

" 1 have heard
Of this your niece's malady," replied
The Lord of Vaucouleur, " that she frequents
The loneliest haunts and deepest solitude.
Estranged from human kind and human cares
With loathing like to madness. It were best
To place her with some pious sisterhood.
Who duly, moru and eve, for her soul's health
Soliciting Heaven, may likeliest remedy
The 'stricken mind, or frenzied or possess'd."

So as Sir Robert ceased, the Maiden cried,

" I am not mad. Possess'd indeed I am !

The hand of God is strong upon my soul.

And I have wrestled vainly with the Lord,

And stubbornly, I fear me. I can save

This country. Sir ! I can deliver France I

Yea — I must save the country ! — God is in me ;

I speak not, think not, feel not of myself.

He knew and sanctified me ere my birth;

Hk to the nations hath ordained me;

And whither he shall send me, I must go;

And whatso he commands, that I nmst speak ;

And whatso is his will, that I must do;

And I must put away all fear of man.

Lest HE in wrath confound me."

At the first
With pity or with scorn Dunois had heard
The Maid inspired ; but now he in his heart
Felt that misgiving which precedes belief

14

JOAN OF ARC.

BOOK I.

In what was disbelieved and scoff 'd at late
For folly. " Damsel ! " said the Chief, " methinks
It would be wisely done to doubt this call,
Haply of some ill Spirit prompting thee
To self-destruction." .

" Doubt ! " the Maid exclaim'd :
It were as easy when I gaze around
On all this fair variety of things,
Green fields and tufted woods, and the blue depth
Of heaven, and yonder glorious sun, to doubt
Creating wisdom ! — When in the evening gale
I breathe the mingled odors of the spring,
And hear the wildwood melody, and hear
The populous air vocal with insect life.
To doubt God's goodness ! There are feelings. Chief,
Which cannot lie ; and 1 have oftentimes
Felt in the midnight silence of my soul
The call of God."

They listened to the Maid,
And they almost believed. Then spake Dunois,
" Wilt thou go with me. Maiden, to the King,
And there announce thy mission.' " Thus he said.
For thoughts of politic craftiness arose
Within him, and his faith, yet unconfirm'd,
Determin'd to prompt action. She replied,
" Therefore I sought the Lord of Vaucouleur,
That with sucli credence as prevents delay,
He to the King might send me. Now beseech you
Speed our departure ! ' '

Then Dunois address'd
Sir Robert, " Fare thee well, my friend and host !
It were ill done to linger here when Heaven
Vouchsafes such strange assistance. Let what force
Lorraine can raise to Chinon follow us ;
And with the tidings of this holy Maid,
Sent by the Lord, fill thou the country; soon
Therewith shall France awake as from the sleep
Of death. Now, Maid ! depart we at thy will."

" God's blessing go with ye! "exclaim'd old Claude,
" Good Angels guard my girl ! " and as he spake
The tears stream'd fast adown his aged cheeks.
" And if I do not live to see thee more.
As sure 1 think I shall not, — yet sometimes
Remember thine old Uncle. I have loved thee
Even from thy childhood, Joan ! and I shall lose
The comfort of mine age in losing thee.
But God be with thee. Child ! "

Nor was the Maid,
Though all subdued of soul, untroubled now
In that sad parting; — but slie calm'd herself.
Painfully keeping down her heart, and said,
" Comfort thyself, my Uncle, with the thought
Of what I am, and for what enterprise
Chosen from among the people. Oh ! be sure
I shall remember thee, in whom I found
A parent's love, when parents were unkind !
And when the ominous broodings of my soul
Were scoft'd and made a mock of by all else.
Thou for thy love didst hear me and believe.
Shall I forget these things ,' " — By this Dunois
Had arm'd, the steeds stood ready at the gate.
But then she fell upon the old man's neck
And cried, " Pray for me ! — I shall need thy
prayers '

Pray for me, that I fail not in my hour ! "
Thereat awhile, as if some awful thought
Had overpower'd her, on his neck she hung ;
Then rising with flush'd cheek and kindling eye,
" Farewell ! " quoth she, " and live in hope ! Anon
Thou shalt hear tidings to rejoice thy heart,
Tidings of joy for all, but most for thee !
Be this thy comfort! " The old man received
Her last embrace, and weeping like a cliild,
Scarcely through tears could see them on their steeds
Spring up, and go their way.

So on they went.
And now along the mountain's winding path
Upward they journey'd slow, and now they paused
And gazed where o'er the plain the stately towers
Of Vaucouleur arose, in distance seen.
Dark and distinct ; below its castled height,
Througli fair and fertile pastures, the deep Meuse
Roll'd glittering on. Domremi's cottages
Gleam'd in the sun hard by, white cottages.
That in the evening traveller's weary mind
Had waken'd thoughts of comfort and of home.
Making him yearn for rest. But on one spot.
One little spot, the Virgin's eye was fix'd,
Her native Arc ; embower'd the hamlet lay
Upon the forest edge, whose ancient woods,
With all their infinite varieties.
Now form'd a mass of shade. The distant plain
Rose on the horizon rich with pleasant groves,
And vineyards in the greenest hue of spring,
And streams now hidden on their winding way,
Now issuing forth in light.

The Maiden gazed
i^Till all grew dim upon her dizzy eye.
^' Oh what a blessed world were this ! " she cried,
" But that the great and honorable men
Have seized the earth, and of the heritage
Which God, the Sire of all, to all had given.
Disherited their brethren ! Happy those
Who in the after days shall live, when Time
Hath spoken, and the multitude of years
Taught wisdom to mankind ! — Unhappy France !
Fiercer than evening wolves thy bitter foes
Rush o'er the land, and desolate, and kill;
Long has the widow's and the orphan's groan
Accused Heaven's justice ; — but the hour is come !
God hath inclined his ear, hath heard the voice
Of mourning, and his anger is gone forth."

Then said the Son of Orleans, " Holy Maid !

Fain would I know, if blameless I may seek

Such knowledge, how the heavenly call was heard

First in thy waken'd soul ; nor deem in me

Aught idly curious, if of thy past life

I ask the story. In the hour of age.

If haply I survive to see this realm

Deliver'd, precious then will be the thought

That I have known the delegated Maid,

And heard from her the wondrous ways of Heaven.

" A simple tale," the mission'd Maid replied :
" Yet may it well employ the journeying hour,
And pleasant is the memory of the past.

" Seest thou, Sir Chief, where yonder forest skirts

BOOK I.

JOAN OF ARC.

15

The Mouse, that in its winding mazes shows,

As on the fartlier bank, the distant towers

Of Vaucouleur ? there in the hanalet Arc

My father's dwelling stands;" a lowly hut,

Yet nought of needful comfort did it lack.

For in Lorraine tliere lived no kinder Lord

Than old Sir Robert, and my father Jaques

In flocks and herds was rich ; a toiling man.

Intent on worldly gains, one in whose heart

Affection had no root. I never knew

A parent's love ; for harsh my mother was,

And deem'd the care which infancy demands

Irksome, and ill-repaid. Severe they were,

And would have made me fear them ; but my soul

Posscss'd the germ of inborn fortitude.

And stubbornly I bore unkind rebuke

And angry chastisement. Yet was the voice

That spake in tones of tenderness most sweet

To my young heart ; how have 1 felt it leap

With transport, when my Uncle Claude ap-

proach'd !
For he would take me on his knee, and tell
Such wondrous tales as childhood loves to hear.
Listening with eager eyes and open lips
Devoutly in attention. Good old man !
Oh, if I ever pour'd a prayer to Heaven
Unhallow'd by the grateful thought of him,
Methinks the righteous winds would scatter it I
He was a parent to me, and his home
Was mine, when in advancing years I found
No peace, no comfort in my father's house.
With him I pass'd the pleasant evening hours.
By day I drove my father's flock afield,^
And this was happiness.

" Amid these wilds
Often to summer pasture have I driven
The flock ; and well I know these woodland wilds,
And every bosom'd vale, and valley stream
Is dear to memory. 1 have laid me down
Beside yon valley stream, that up the ascent
Scarce sends the sound of waters now, and watch'd
The beck roll glittering to the noon-tide sun,
And listen'd to its ceaseless murmuring.
Till all was hush'd and tranquil in my soul,
Fill'd with a strange and undefined delight
That pass'd across the mind like summer clouds
Over the vale at eve ; their fleeting hues
The traveller cannot trace with memory's eye.
Yet he remembers well how fair they were.
How beautiful.

" In solitude and peace
Here 1 grew up, amid the loveliest scenes
Of unpolluted nature. Sweet it was.
As the white mists of morning roll'd away,
To see the upland's wooded heights appear
Dark in the early dawn, and mark the slope
With gorse-flowers glowing, as the sun illumed
Their golden glory '" with his deepening light ;
Pleasant at noon beside the vocal brook
To lay me down, and watch the floating clouds,
And shape to fancy's wild similitudes
Their ever-varying forms ; and oh how sweet 1
To drive my flock at evening to the fold.
And hasten to our little hut, and hear
The voice of kindness bid me welcome home.

" Amid the village playmates of my youth

Was one wliom riper years approved a friend.

A gentle maid was my poor Madelon ;

I loved her as a sister, and long time

Her undivided tenderness possess'd.

Until a better and a holier tie

Gave her one nearer friend ; and tlicn my heart

Partook her happiness, for never lived

A happier pair than Arnaud and hfs wife.

" Lorraine was call'd to arms, and with her youth
Went Arnaud to the war. The morn was fair.
Bright shone the sun, the birds sung cheerfully.
And all the fields seem'd joyous in the spring ;
But to Domremi wretched was that day.
For tJiere was lamentation, and the voice
Of anguish, and tlie deeper agony
Tiiat spake not. Never can my heart forget
The feelings that shot through me, when the horn
Gave its last call, and through the castle-gate
The banner moved, and from the clinging arms
Which hung on them, as for a last embrace.
Sons, brethren, husbands, went.

" More frequent now
Sought I the converse of poor Madelon,
For now she needed friendship's soothing voice.
All the long summer did she live in hope
Of tidings from the war ; and as at eve
She with her mother by the cottage door
Sat in the sunshine, if a traveller
Appear'd at distance coming o'er the brow,
Her eye was on him, and it might be seen
By the flush'd cheek what thoughts were in her

heart,
And by the deadly paleness which ensued,
How her heart died within her. So the days
And weeks and months pass'd on ; and when the

leaves
Fell in the autumn, a most painful hope
That reason own'd not, that with expectation
Did never cheer her .as she rose at morn.
Still linger'd in her heart, and still at night
Made disappointment dreadful. Winter came.
But Arnaud never from the war return'd ;
He far away had perish'd ; and when late
The tidings of his certain death arrived,
Sore with long anguish underneath that blow
She sunk. Then would she sit and think all day
Upon the past, and talk of happiness
That never could return, as though she found
Best solace in the thoughts which minister'd
To sorrow : and she loved to see the sun
Go down, because another day was gone.
And then she might retire to solitude
And wakeful recollections, or perchance
To sleep more wearying far than wakefulness.
Dreams of his safcty and return, and starts
Of agony ; so neither night nor d.iy
Could she find rest, but pined and pined away.

" Death I to the happy thou art terrible ;
But how the wretched love to think of thee,
Oh thou true comforter, the friend of all
Wlin have no friend beside I " By the sick bed
Of Madelon I sat, wlicn sure she felt

16

JOAN OF ARC,

BOOK I.

The hour of her deliverance drawing near ;
I saw her eye kindle witli heavenly hope,
1 had her latest look of earthly love,
I telt her hand's last pressure. — Son of Orleans !
I would not wish to live to know that hour.
When 1 could think upon a dear friend dead.
And weep not ; but they are not bitter tears, —
Not painful now ; for Christ hath risen, first fruits
Of them that sl^pt ; and we shall meet again.
Meet, not again to part : the grave hath lost
Its victory.

" 1 remember, as her bier
Went to the grave, a lark sprung up aloft.
And soar'd amid the sunshine, carolling
So full of joy, that to the mourner's ear
More mournfully than dirge or passing bell,
The joyous carol came, and made us feel
That of the multitude of beings, none
But man was wretched.

" Then my soul awoke.
For it had slumber'd long in happiness.
And never feeling misery, never thought
What others suffer. 1, as best I might.
Solaced the keen regret of Elinor ;
And much my cares avail'd, and much her son's.
On whom, the only comfort ol' her age.
She centred now her love. A younger birth,
Aged nearly as myself was Theodore,
An ardent youth, who with the kindest care
Had sooth'd his sister's sorrow. We had knelt
By her death-bed together, and no bond
In closer union knits two human hearts
Than fellowship in grief.

" It chanced as once
Beside the fire of Elinor 1 sat,
The night was comfortless, the loud blast howl'd.
And as we drew around the social hearth.
We heard the rain beat hard. Driven by the storm
A warrior mark'd our distant taper's light ;
We heapt the fire, and spread the friendly board.
' 'T is a rude night, ' the stranger cried : ' safe

housed
Pleasant it is to hear the pelting rain.
I too could be content to dwell in peace,
Resting my head upon the lap of love.
But that my country calls. When the winds roar.
Remember sometimes what a soldier suffers,
And think on Conrade.'

" Theodore replied,
' Success go with thee ! Something we have known
Of war, and tasted its calamity ;
And I am well content to dwell in peace.
Albeit inglorious, thanking the good God
Who made me to be happy.'

" ' Did that God,'
Cried Conrade, ' form thy heart for happiness,
When Desolation royally careers
Over thy wretched country .' Did that God
Form thee for Peace when Slaughter is abroad.
When her brooks run with blood, and Rape, and

Murder,
Stalk through her flaming towns .' Live thou in

peace,
Young man ! my heart is human : I must feel
For what my brethren suffer.' While he spake

Such mingled passions character'd his face

Of fierce and terrible benevolence.

That 1 did tremble as I listen'd to him ;

And in my heart tumultuous thoughts arose

Of high achievements, indistinct, and wild,

And vast, — yet such they were as made me pant

As though by some divinity possess'd.

" ' But is there not some duty due to those
We love .' ' said Theodore ; ' is tliere an employ
More righteous than to cheer declining age,
And thus with filial tenderness repay
Parental care .' '

" ' Hard is it,' Conrade cried,
' Ay, liard indeed, to part from those we love ;
And I have suffer'd that severest pang.
I liave left an aged mother ; I have left
One upon whom my heart has fasten'd all
Its dearest, best affections. Should I live
Till France shall see the blessed hour of peace,
I shall return ; my heart will be content.
My duties then will have been well discharged,
And I may then be happy. Tliere are those
Who deem such thoughts the fancies of a mind
Strict beyond measure, and were well content.
If I should soften down my rigid nature
Even to inglorious ease, to honor me.
But pure of heart and higli in self-esteem
1 must be honor'd by myself: all else,
The breath of Fame, is as the unsteady wind
Worthless.'

" So saying from his belt he took
The encumbering sword. I held it, listening to him,
And wistless what I did, half from the sheath
Drew forth its glittering blade. I gazed upon it.
And shuddering, as I touch'd its edge, exclaim d,
How horrible it is with the keen sword
To gore the finely-fibred human frame !
I could not strike a lamb.

" He answer'd me,
' Maiden, thou sayest well. I could not strike
A lamb ! — But when the merciless invader
Spares not gray age, and mocks the infant's shriek
As it doth writhe upon his cursed lance.
And forces to his foul embrace the wife
Even where her slaughter'd husband bleeds to

death.
Almighty God ! 1 should not be a man
If I did let one weak and pitiful feeling
Make mine arm impotent to cleave him down.
Think well ofthis, young man ! ' '^ he cried, and took
The hand of Theodore ; 'think well ofthis;
As you are human, as you hope to live
In peace, amid the dearest joys of home,
Think well of this ! You have a tender mother ;
As you do wish that she may die in peace,
As you would even to madness agonize
To hear this maiden call on you in vain
For help, and see her dragg'd, and hear her scream
In the blood-reeking soldier's lustful grasp.
Think that there are such horrors ! '•* that even now,
Some city flames, and haply, as in Roan,
Some famish'd babe on his dead mother's breast
Yet hangs and pulls for food ! '^ — Woe be to those
By whom tlie evil comes I And woe to him.

BOOK IT.

JOAN OF ARC.

17

For little loss his fjuilt, — who dwells in peace,
When every arm is needed for the strife ! '

" When we had all betaken us to rest,
Sleepless I lay, and in my mind revolved
The high-soul'd warrior's speech. Then Madclon
Rose in remembrance ; over her the grave
Had closed ; her sorrows were not register'd
In the rolls of fame ; but wlien the tears run down
Tlie widow's cheek, shall not her cry be heard
In Heaven against tiie oppressor? Will not God
In sunder smite tlic unmerciful, and break
The sceptre of the wicked ? '^ — Thoughts like these
Possess'd my soul, till at tlie break of day
I slept; nor did my heated brain repose
Even tlien ; for visions, sent, as I believe.
From the Most High, arose. A high-towcr'd town
Hemm'd in and girt with enemies, I saw.
Where Famine on a heap of carc;isses.
Half envious of the unutterable feast,
Mark'd the gorged raven clog his beak with gore.
I turn'd me then to tlie besieger's camp,
And there was revelry : a loud, lewd laugh
Burst on mine ear, and I beheld the chiefs
Sit at their feast, and plan the work of death.
My soul grew sick within me ; I look'd up.
Reproaching Heaven, — lo ! from the clouds an arm
As of the avenging Angel was put forth.
And from his hand a sword, like lightning, fell.

" From that night I could feel my burden'd soul
Heaving beneath incumbent Deity.
I sate in silence, musing on the days
To come, unheeding and unseeing all
Around me, in that dreaminess of thought
When every bodily sense is as it slept,
And the mind alone is wakeful. I have heard
Strange voices in the evening wind ; strange forms
Dimly discover'd Ihrong'd the twilight air.
The neighbors wonder'd at the sudden change ;
They call'd me crazed ; and my dear Uncle, too.
Would sit and gaze upon me wistfully,
A heaviness upon his aged brow,
And in his eye such sorrow, that my heart
Sometimes misgave me. I had told him all
The mighty future laboring in my breast.
But that the hour, methought, not yet was come.

" At length I heard of Orleans, by the foe
Wall'd in from human help : thither all thoughts.
All hopes were turn'd ; that bulwark beaten down,
All were the invaders. Then my troubled soul
Grew more disturb'd, and shunning ever}' eye,
I loved to wander where the woodland shade
Was deepest, tliere on mightiest deeds to brood
Of shadowy vastness, such as made my heart
Throb loud : anon I paused, and in a state
Of half expectance, listen'd to the wind.

" Tiirrc is a fountain in the forest call'd
The Fountain of the Fairies :'" when a child
With a delightful wonder I have heard
Tales of the FAfin tribe who on its banks
Hold midnight revelry. An ancient oak.
The goodliest of the forest, grows beside ;
3

Alone it stands, upon a green grass plat.
By the woods bounded like some little isle.
It ever hath been deem'd tiieir favorite tree ;
Tliey love to lie and rock upon its leaves,'''
And bask in moonshine. Here the Woodman leads
His boy, and showing him the green-sward mark'd
With darker circlets, says their midnight dance
Hath traced the rings, and bids him spare the tree.
Fancy had cast a spell upon the place
Which made it holy ; and the villagers
Would say that never evil thing aj)proach'd
Unpunish'd there. The strange and fearful pleasure
Which fill'd me by that solitary spring,
Ceased not in riper years ; and now it woke
Deeper delight, and more mysterious awe.

" A blessed spot ! Oh, how my soul enjoy 'd
Its holy quietness, with what delight
Escaping from mankind 1 hasten'd there
To solitude and freedom ! Thitherward
On a spring eve I had betaken me.
And there I sat, and mark'd the deep red clouds
Gatlier before the wind — the rising wind.
Whose sudden gusts, each wilder than the last,
Appear'd to rock my senses. Soon the night
Darken'd around, and the large rain-drops fell
Heavy ; anon tempestuously the gale
Swept o'er the wood. Methought the thunder-
shower
Fell with refreshing coolness on my head.
And the hoarse d;ish of waters, and the rush
Of winds that mingled with the forest roar.
Made a wild music. On a rock I sat ;
The glory of the tempest fill'd my soul ;
And when the thunders peal'd, and the long flash
Hung durable in heaven, and on my sight
Spread the gray forest, memory, thought, were
All sense of self annihilate, I seem'd [gone,'"

Diffused into the scene.

" At length a light
Approach'd the spring ; I saw my Uncle Claude ;
His gray locks dripping with the midnight storm.
He came, and caught me in his arms, and cried,
' My God ! my child is safe ! '

" I felt his words
Pierce in my heart ; my soul was overcharged ;
I fell upon his neck and told him all ;
God was within me ; as I felt, I spake,
And he believed.

" Ay, Chieftain ! and the world
Shall soon believe my mission ; for the Lord
Will raise up indignation and pour on't
His wrath, and they shall perish who oppress." "

THE SECOiND BOOK.

And now beneath the horizon westering slow
Had sinik the orb of day : o'er all the vale
A purple softness spread, save where some tree
Its lengthen'd shadow stretch'd,or winding stream
Mirror'd the light of Heaven, still traced distinct
When twilight dimly shrouded all beside.

18

JOAN OF ARC.

BOOK II.

A grateful coolness freshen'd the calm air,
And the hoarse grasshoppers their evening song
Sung shrill and ceaseless,-" as the dews of night
Descended. On their way the travellers wend,
Cheering the road with converse, till at length
They mark a cottage lamp, whose steady light
Slione though the lattice ; thitherward they turn.
Tliere came an old man forth ; his thin gray locks
Moved to the breeze, and on his wither'd face
The characters of age were written deep.
Tliem, louting low with rustic courtesy.
He welcomed in ; on the white-ember'd hearth
Heapt up fresh fuel, then witli friendly care
Spread out his homely board, and fill'd the bowl
With the red produce of the vine that arch'd
His evening scat ; they of the plain repast
Partook, and quaff 'd the pure and pleasant draught.

" Strangers, your fare is homely," said their Host,
" But such it is as we poor countrymen
Earn with our toil : in faith ye are welcome to it !
I too have borne a lance in younger days ;
And would that I were young again to meet
These haughty English in the field of figlit ;
Such as I was when on the fatal plain
Of Agincourt I met them."

" Wert thou then
A sharer in that dreadful day's defeat?"
Exclaim'd the Bastard. " Didst thou know the Lord
Of Orleans.'"

" Know him ? " cried the veteran,
" I saw him ere the bloody fight began
Riding from rank to rank, his beaver up,
The long lance quivering in his mighty grasp.
His eye was wratliful to an enemy.
But for his countrymen it had a smile
Would win all hearts. Looking at thee. Sir Knight,
Methinks I see him now ; such was his eye.
Gentle in peace, and such his manly brow."

" No tongue but speaketh honor of that name ! "
Exclaim'd Dunois. " Strangers and countrymen
Alike revered the good and gallant Chief.
His vassals like a father loved their Lord ;
His gates stood open to tlie traveller ;
The pilgrim when he saw his towers rejoiced,
For he had heard in other lands the fame
Of Orleans. — And he lives a prisoner still !
Losing all hope because my arm so long
Hath fail'd to win his liberty ! "

He turn'd
His head away, hiding the burning shame
Which flush'd his face. "But he shall live,

Dunois,"
The mission'd Maid replied ; " but he shall live
To hear good tidings ; hear of liberty,
Of his own liberty, by his brother's arm
Achieved in well-won battle. He shall live
Happy; the memory of his prison'd years ^'
Shall heighten all his joys, and his gray hairs
Co to the grave in peace."

" I would fain live
To see that day," replied their aged liost :
" How would my heart leap to behold again
The gallant, generous chieftain ! I fought by him.

When all our hopes of victory were lost.

And down his battcr'd arms tlie blood stream'd fast

From many a wound. Like wolves they hemm'd

us in,
Fierce in unhoped for conquest : all around
Our dead and dying countrymen lay heap'd ;
Yet still he strove ; — I wondcr'd at his valor !
Tiiere was not one who on that fatal day
Fought bravelier."

" Fatal was that day to France,"
Exclaim'd the Bastard ; " tliere Alencjon fell,
Valiant in vain ; there D'Albcrt, whose mad pride
Brought the whole ruin on. There fell Brabant,
Vaudemont, and Marie, and Bar, and Faquenberg,
Our noblest warriors ; the determin'd foe
Fought for revenge, not hoping victory.
Desperately brave ; ranks fell on ranks before

them ;
The prisoners of that shameful day out-summ'd
Their conquerors ! " ^

" Yet believe not," Bertram cried,
" That cowardice disgraced thy countrymen !
They, by their leader's arrogance led on
With heedless fury, found all numbers vain.
All effort fruitless there ; and hadst thou seen,
Skilful as brave, how Henry's ready eye
Lost not a thicket, not a hillock's aid ;
From his hersed bowmen how the arrows flew ^
Thick as the snow-flakes and with lightning force ;
Thou wouldst have known such soldiers, such a

chief.
Could never be subdued.

" But when the field
Was won, and they who had escaped the fight
Had yielded up their arras, it was foul work
To turn on the defenceless prisoners
The cruel sword of conquest.^'' Girt around
I to their mercy had surrender'd me.
When lo ! I heard the dreadful cry of death.
Not as amid the fray, when man met man
And in fair combat gave the mortal blow ;
Here the poor captives, weaponless and bound,
Saw their stern victors draw again the sword,
And groan'd and strove in vain to free their hands.
And bade them think upon their plighted faith,
And pray'd for mercy in the name of God,
In vain : the King had bade them massacre.
And in their helpless prisoners' naked breasts
They drove the weapon. Then 1 look'd for death.
And at that moment death was terrible, —
For the heat of fight was over ; of my home
I thouoht, and of my wife and little ones
In bitterness of heart. But the brave man,
To whom the chance of war had made me thrall,
Had pity, loosed my hands, and bade me fly.
It was the will of Heaven that I should live
Childless and old to think upon the past.
And wish that I had perish'd ! "

The old man
Wept as he spake. " Ye may perhaps have heard
Of the hard siege that Roan so long endur'd.
1 dwelt there, strangers ; I had then a wife,
And I had cliildren tenderly beloved.
Who I did hope should cheer me in old age
And close mine eyes. The tale of misery

BOOK II.

JOAN or ARC,

19

M:iyhap were t<>dious, or I could relate
Much oflliat dreadful time."

Tlie Maid replied,
Wishing of that devoted town to hear.
Thus tlien tlie veteran :

" So by Heaven preserved,
From the disastrous plain of Airincourl ^■'
1 speeded homewards, and abode in peace,
ilonry, as wise as brave, had back to England"''
i>i-d his victorious army ; well aware
That France was mighty, that her warlike sons,
impatient of a foreigner's command.
Might rise impetuous, and with multitudes
Tread down tlie invaders. Wisely he return'd.
For our proud barons in their private broils
Wasted tlie strength of France. I dwelt at Ijome,
And with the little I possess'd content.
Lived happily. A pleasant sight it was
To see my children, as at eve I sat
Beneath the vine, come clustering round my knee.
That tliey might hear again the otl-told talc
Of the dangers I had past : their little eyes
Would with sucli anxious eagerness attend
The tale of life preserved, as made me feel
Life's value. My poor children I a hard fate
Mad they ! But oft and bitterly I wish
That God had to his mercy taken me
In childhood, for it is a heavy lot
To linger out old age in loneliness !

" Ah me ! when war the masters of mankind,

Woe to the poor man ! if he sow his field,

He shall not reap the harvest; if he see

His offspring rise around, his boding heart

Aches at the thought that they are multiplied

To the sword ! Again from Engl md the fierce foe

Came on our ravaged coasts. In battle bold.

Merciless in conquest, their victorious King

Swept like the desolating tempest round.

Dambleres submits ; on Caen's subjected wall

The flag of England waved, lloan still remain'd,

Embattled Roan, bulwark of Normandy ;

Nor unresisted round her massy walls

Pltch'd they their camp. 1 need not tell. Sir Knight,

How ofl and boldly on the invading host

We burst with fierce assault impetuous forth,

For many were the warlike sons of Roan.*'

One gallant Citizen was famed o'er all

For daring hardihood preeminent,

Bhnchard. He, gathering round his countrymen,

With his own courage kindling every breast.

Had made them vow before Almighty God*^

Never to yield them to the usurping foe.

Before the God of Hosts we made the vow ;

.\nd we had baffled the besieging power,

Hid not tiie patient enemy drawn round

His wide intrenchments. From the watch-tower's

top
In vain with fearful hearts along the Seine
We strain'd the eye, and every distant wave
Which in the sunbeam glitter'd, fondly thought
The white sail of supply. Alas! no more
The white sail rose upon our aching sight;
For guarded was the Seine, and our stern foe
Had made aleague with Famine.'" How my heart

Sunk in me when at night 1 carried home
The scanty pittance of to-morrow's meal !
You know not, strangers, what it is to see
The asking eye of hunger !

" Still we strove,
H\pecting aid ; nor longer force to force,
Valor to valor, in the fight opposed.
But to the exasperate patience of the foe,
Desperate endurance.*^ Though with Christian zeal
Ursino would have pour'd the balm of peace
Into our wounds, Ambition's ear, best pleased
With the war's clamor and the groan of death.
Was deaf to prayer. Day afler day pass'd on ;
AVe heard no voice of comfort. From the walls
Could we behold their savage Irish Kerns,'^'
Ruffians half-clothed, half-human, half-baptized,^^
Come with their spoil, mingling their hideous

shouts
With moan of weary flocks, and piteous low
Of kino sore-laden, in the mirthful camp
Scattering abundance ; while the loathliest food
We prized above all price ; while in our streets
The dying groan of hunger, and the cries
Of famishing infants echoed, — and we heard,
With the strange selfishness of misery,
We heard, and heeded not.

," Tliou wouldst have deem'd
Roan must have fallen an easy sacrifice.
Young warrior ! hadst thou seen our meagre limbs.
And pale and shrunken cheeks, and hollow eyes ,
Yet still we struggled bravely ! Blanchard still
Spake of the obdurate temper of the foe.
Of Harfleur's wretched people driven out'^
Houseless and destitute, while that stern King
Knelt at the altar, and with impious prayer^*
Gave God the glory, even while the blood
That he had shed was recking up to Heaven.
He bade us think what mercy they had found
Who yielded on the plain of Agincourt,
And what the gallant sons of Caen, by him
In cold blood slaughtered : 3' then his scanty f^iod
Sharing with the most wretched, he would bid us
Bear with our miseries manfully.

"Thus press'd.
Lest all should perish thus, our chiefs decreed
Women and children, the infirm and old.
All who were useless in the work of war,
Should forth and take their fortune. Age, that

makes
The joys and sorrows of the distant years
Like a half-remember'd dream, yet on my heart
Leaves deep impress'd the horrors of that hour.
Then as our widow-wives clung round our necks.
And the deep sob of anguish interrupted
The prayer of parting, even the pious priest
As he implored his God to strengthen us.
And told us we should meet again in Heaven,
He groan'd and curs'd in bitterness of heart'"
Thai merciless King. The wretched crowd pass'd

• through the gates they

on;
My wife — my children ■

pass'd.
Then tlie gates closed— Would I were in my

grave,
That I might lose remembrance '

20

JOAN OF ARC.

BOOK III

" What is man
That he can hear the groan of wretchedness
And ibel no fleshly pang ! Why did tlie All-Good
Create tliese warrior scourges of mankind,
These who delight in slaughter? I did think
Tliere was not on this earth a heart so hard
Could hear a famish'd woman ask for food,
And feel no pity. As the outcast train
Drew near, relentless Henry bade liis troops
Drive back the miserable multitude.^'
They drove tliem to the walls ; — it was the depth
Of winter, — we had no relief to grant.
The aged ones groan'd to our foe in vain,
The mother pleaded for her dying child.
And they felt no remorse I "

The mission'd Maid
Rose from her seat, — " The old and the infirm,
The mother and her babes ! — and yet no lightning
Blasted this man ! "

" Aye, Lady," Bertram cried,
" And when we sent the herald to implore
His mercy ^* on tlie helpless, his stern face
Assum'd a sterner smile of callous scorn,
And he replied in mockery. On the wall
I stood and watch'd the miserable outcasts.
And every moment thought that Henry's heart,
Hard as it was, would melt. . All night I stood, —
Their deep groans came upon the midnight gale ;
Fainter they grew, for the cold wintry wind
Blew bleak ; fainter they grew, and at the last
All was still, save that ever and anon
Some mother raised o'er her expiring child
\ cry of frenzying anguish.^'

" From that hour
On all the busy turmoil of the world
I look'd with strange indifference ; bearing want
With the sick patience of a mind worn out.
Nor when the traitor yielded up our town""*
Aught heeded I as through our ruin'd streets.
Through putrid heaps of famish'd carcasses.
The pomp of triumph pass'd. One pang alone
1 felt, when by that cruel King's command
The gallant Blanchard died : ■*' calmly he died,
And as he bow'd beneath the axe, thank'd God
That he had done his duty.

" I survive ,
A solitary, friendless, wretched one,
Knowing no joy save in the certain hope
That I shall soon be gather'd to my sires.
And soon repose, there where the wicked cease *'
From troubling, and the weary arc at rest."

" And happy," cried the delegated Maid,
" And happy they who in that holy faith
Bow meekly to the rod ! A little while
yiiall they endure the proud man's contumely.
The injustice of the great : a little while
Though shelterless they feel the wintry wind,
The wind shall whistle o'er their turf-grown grave.
And all be peace below. But woe to those,
Woe to the Mighty Ones who send abroad
Their ministers of death, and give to Fury
The flaming firebrand ; these indeed shall live
The heroes of the wandering minstrel's song;
But they have their reward ; the innocent blood

Steams up to Heaven against them: God shall hear
The widow's groan."

"I saw him," Bertram cried,
" Henry of Agincourt, this mighty King,
Go to his grave. The long procession pass'd
Slowly from town to town, and when I heard
The deep-toned dirge, and saw the banners wave .
A pompous shade ,''^ and the tall torches cast
In the mid-day sun a dim and gloomy light,''''
I thouglit what he had been on earth who now
Was gone to his account, and blest my God
I was not such as he ! "

So spake the old man,
And then his guests betook them to repose.

I

THE THIRD BOOK.

Fair dawn'd the morning, and the early sun
Pour'd on the latticed cot a cheerful gleam,
And up the travellers rose, and on their way
Hasten'd, their dangerous way,''^ through fertile

tracts
Laid waste by war. They pass'd the Auxerrois ;
The autumnal rains had beaten to the earth "«
The unreap'd harvest ; from the village church
No even-song bell was heard ; the shepherd's dog
Prey'd on the scatter'd flock, for there was now
No hand to feed him, and upon the hearth
Where he had slumber'd at his master's feet
Weeds grew and reptiles crawl'd. Or if they found
Sometimes a welcome, those who welcomed them
Were old and helpless creatures, lingering there
Where they were born, and where they wish'd to

die,
The place being all that they had left to love.
They pass'd the Yonne, they pass'd the rapid Loire,
Still urging on their way with cautious speed.
Shunning Auxerre, and Bar's embattled wall,
And Romorantin's towers.

So journeying on,
Fast by a spring, which welling at his feet
With many a winding crept along the mead,
A Knight they saw, who there at his repast
Let tlie west wind play round his ungirt brow.
Approaching near, the Bastard recognized
That faithful friend of Orleans, the brave chief
Du Chastel ; and their mutual greeting pass'd,
They on the streamlet's mossy bank reclined
Beside him, and his frugal fare partook,
And drank the running waters.

" Art thou bound
For the Court, Dunois.'" exclaim'd the aged

Knight ;
" I thought thou hadst been far away, shut up
In Orleans, where her valiant sons the siege
Right loyally endure ! "

" I left the town,"
Dunois replied, " thinking that my prompt speed
Might seize tlie enemy's stores, and with fresh force
Reenter. FastoWe's better fate prevail'd,"'
And from the field of shame my maddening horse
Bore me, an arrow having pierced his flank.

BOOK III.

JOAN OF ARC.

21

\\\nn out and tliiiit with that day's dangerous toil,

My deep wounds bleeding, vainly with weak hand

I check'd the powerless rein. Nor aught avail'd

When lieal'd at length, defeated and alone

Again to enter Orleans. In Lorraine

I sought to raise new powers, and now returned

With strangest and most unexpected aid.

Sent by high Heaven, I seek the Court, and thence

']"() that beleaguer'd town shall lead such force,

'I'hat the proud English in tlieir fields of blood

Shall perish."

"I too," Tanncguy rcply'd,
In the field of battle once again perchance
May serve my royal Master; in his cause
My youth adventurd much, nor can my age
Find better close tlian in the clang of arms
To die for him whom 1 have lived to serve .■'^
Thou art for the Court. Son of the Chief I loved !
Be wise by my experience. He who seeks
Court-favor, ventures like a boy who leans
Over the brink of some high precipice
To reach the o'erhanging fruit.''* Thou secst me

liere
A banish'd man, Dunois ! '"^ so to appease
Richemont, who, jealous of the royal ear,
With midnight murder leagues, and down the Loire
Sends the black carcass of his strangled foe.^'
Now confident of strength, at tiie Kings feet
He stabs the King's best friends, and then demands,
As with a conqueror's imperious tone,
The post of honor. Son of that good Duke
Whose death my arm avenged,^' may all thy days
Be happy ; serve thy country in the field.
But in the hour of peace amid thy friends
Dwell thou without ambition.''

So he spake.
But when the Bastard told his wondrous tale.
How interposing Heaven had its high aid
Vouchsafed to France, tlie old man's eyes flash'd

fire,
And rising from the bank, liis ready steed
That grazed beside he mounted. "Farewell, friend.
And thou, the Delegate of Heaven I " lie cried.
" I go to do my part, and we shall meet
At Orleans." Saying thus, he spurr'daway.
They journey on their way till Chinon's towers
Rose on the distant view ; the royal scat
Of Charles, while Paris with her servile sons,
A headstrong, mutable, ferocious race,
Bow'd to the invader's yoke; City even then
Above all Cities noted for dire deeds !
Yet doom'd to be the scene of blacker guilt,
Opprobry more enduring, crimes that call'd
For heavier vengeance, than in tliose dark days
When the Burgundian faction fill'd thy streets
With carnage.*^ Twice hast thou since then been

made
A horror and a warning to all lands ;
When kingly power conspired with papal crail
To plot and perpetrate that massacre,
Wliich neither change of kalendar, nor lapse
Of time, shall hide from memory, or efface;
And when in more enlighten'd days, — so deem'd,
So vaunted, — the astonisli'd nations saw
A people, to their own devices left,

Tiierifore as by judicial frenzy stricken,
Lawless and godless, fill the whole wide realm
With terror, and with wickedness and woe, —
A more astounding judgment than when Heaven
Shower'd on the cities of the accursed plain
Its fire and sulphur down.

In Paris now
The Invader triumph'd. On an infant's head
Had Bedford placed the crown of Charlemagne,
And factious nobles bow'd the subject knee.
And own'd an English infant for their King,
False to their own liege Lord.

" Beloved of Heaven,"
Then said the Son of Orleans to the Maid,
" Lo tiiese the walls of Chinon, this the abode
Of Charles our monarch. Here in revelry
He of his armies vanquish'd, his fair towns
Subdued, hears careless and prolongs the dance.
And little marvel I tliat to the cares
Of empire still ho turns the unwilling ear.
For loss on loss, defeat upon defeat.
His strong holds taken, and his bravest Chiefs
Or slain or captured, and the hopes of youth
All blasted, have subdued the royal mind
Undisciplined in Fortitude's stern school.
So may thy voice arouse his sleeping virtue ! "

The mission'd Maid replied, " Do thou, Dunois,
Announce my mission to the royal ear.
1 on the river's winding bank the while
Will roain, collecting for the interview
My thoughts, though firm, yet troubled. Who

essays
Achievements of great import will perforce
Feel the heart heave ; and in my breast I own
Such perturbation."

On the banks of Vienne
Devious the Damsel turn'd, while through the gate
The Son of Orleans press'd with hasty step
To seek the King. Him from the public view
He found secluded with his blameless Queen,
And his partaker of the unlawful bed,
The lofty-minded Agnes.

"Son of Orleans! "
So as he cnter'd cried the haughty fair,
"Thou art well come to witness the disgrace,
The weak, unmanly, base despondency
Of this thy Sovereign Liege. He will retreat
To distant Dauphiny and fly the war !
Go then, unworthy of th}- rank ! retreat
To distant Dauphiny ,^-' and fly the war,
Recreant from battle ! I will not partake
A fugitive's fate; when thou hast lost thy crown
Thou losest Agnes. — Do'st not blush, Dunois !
To bleed in combat for a Prince like this,
Fit only, like the Merovingian race
On a May morning deck'd with flowers,** to mount
His gay-bedizen'd car, and ride abroad
And make the multitude a holiday.
Go, Charles ! and hide thee in a woman's garb.
And these long locks will not disgrace thee then ! "'*'

" Nay, Agnes! " Charles replied, "reproach me
not!
1 have enough of sorrow. Look around,

oo

JOAN OF ARC.

BOOK III.

Soc this fair country ravaged by the foe,

My strong holds taken, and my bravest friends

Fallen in the field, or captives far away.

Dead is the Douglas ; cold thy gallant heart.

Illustrious Buchau ! ye from Scotland's hills,

Not mindless of your old ally distress'd,

Came to his succor ; in this cause ye fouglit ;

For him ye perish'd. Rash, impetuous Narbonne !

Thy mangled corse waves to the winds of Heaven."

Cold, Graville, is thy sinewy arm in death ;

Fallen is Ventadaur ; silent in the grave

Rambouillet sleeps. Brctagnn's unfaithful chief

Leagues with my foes ; and Richemont,^** or in arms

Defies my weak control, or from my side,

A friend more dreaded than the enemy,

Scares my best servants with the assassin's sword.

Soon must beleaguer'd Orleans fall. — But now

A truce to these sad thoughts ! We arc not yet

So utterly despoil'd but we can spread

The friendly board, and giving thee, Dunois,

Such welcome as befits thy father's son.

Win from our public cares a day for joy."

Dunois replied, " So may thy future years
Pass from misfortune free, as all these ills
Shall vanish like a vision of the night !
I como to thee the joyful messenger
Of aid from Heaven ; for Heaven hath delegated
A humble Maiden to deliver France.
That holy Maiden asks an audience now ;
And when she promises miraculous thino-s,
I feel it is not possible to hear
And disbelieve."

Astonish'd by his speech
Stood Charles. " At one of meaner estimation
I should have smiled, Dunois," the King replied ;
" But tliy known worth, and the tried loyalty
Of thy father's house, compel me even to this
To lend a serious ear. A woman sent
To rescue us, when all our strength hath fail'd !
A humble Maiden to deliver Franco !
One whom it Vi'ere not possible to hoar,
And disbelieve ! — Dunois, ill now beseems
Aught wild and hazardous. And yet our state
Being what it is, by miracle alone
Deliverance can be hoped for. Is my person
Known to this woman .' "

" That it cannot be.
Unless it be by miracle made known,"
Dunois replied ; " for she hath never left
Her native hamlet in Lorraine till now."

" Here then," rejoin'd the King, " we have a test
Easy, and safe withal. Abide thou here ;
And hither by a speedy messenger
Summon the Prophetess. Upon the throne
Let some one take his scat and personate
My presence, while I mingle in the train.
If she indeed be by the Spirit moved.
That Spirit, certes, will direct her eyes
To the true Prince whom she is sent to serve :
But if she prove, as likeliest we must deem.
One by her own imaginations crazed.
Thus failing and convinced, she may return
Unblamed to her obscurity, and we

Be spared the shamo of farther loss incurr'd

By credulous fa'itli. Well might the English scofF,^'

If on a frantic woman we should rest

Our last reliance." Thus the King resolved.

And with a faith half-faltering at the proof,

Dunois despatch'd a messenger, to seek

Beside the banks of Vienne, the mission'd Maid.

Soon is the court convened : the jewell'd crown
Shines on a courtier's head. Amid the train
The Monarch undistinguish'd takes his place,
E.xpectant of the event. The Virgin comes,
And as the Bastard led her to the throne.
Quick glancing o'er the mimic Majesty,
With gesture and with look like one inspired,
She fix'd her eye on Charles : *'•' " Thou art the

King!"
Then in a tone that thrill'd all hearts, pursued ;
" I come the appointed Minister of Heaven,
To wield a sword bel'ore whose fated edge,
Far, far from Orleans shall the English wolves
Speed their disastrous flight. Monarch of France !
Send thou the tidings over all the realm.
Great tidings of deliverance and of joy ;
The Maid is come, the mission'd Maid, whose hand
Shall in the consecrated walls of Rheims
Crown thee, anointed King."^'

In wonder mute
The courtiers heard. Astonish'd Charles exclaim'd,
" This is indeed the agency of Heaven !
Hard, Maiden, were I of belief," he said,
" Did 1 not now, with full and confirm'd faith.
Receive thee as a Prophetess raised up
For our deliverance. Therefore, not in doubt
Of Providence or thee do I delay
At once to marshal our brave countrymen
Beneath thy banner ; but to satisfy
Those who at distance from this most clear proof
Might hear and disbelieve, or yield at best
A cold assent. Those fully to confirm.
And more to make thy calling manifest,
Forthwith with all due speed I will convene
The Doctors of Theology ,^^ wise men.
And learned in the mysteries of Heaven.
By them thy mission studied and approved.
As needs it must, their sanction to all nfinds
Will bring conviction, and the sure belief
Lead on thy favor'd troops to mightiest deeds.
Surpassing human possibility."

Well pleas'd the Maiden heard. Her the King
leads
From the disbanding throng, meantime to dwell
With Mary. Watchful for her Lord's return
She sat with Agnes ; Agnes proud of heart,
Majestically fair, whose large full eye
Or flashing anger, or with scornful scowl
Too oft deform'd her beauty. Yet with her
The lawless idol of the Monarch's heart.
The Queen, obedient to her husband's will,
Dwelt meekly in accord. With them the Maid
Was left to sojourn ; by the gentle Queen
With cordial affability received ;
By Agnes courteously, whose outward show
Of graciousness concealed an inward awe,

BOOK III.

JOAN OF ARC,

23

For while she hoped and trusted through her means
Charh's should be reiislablishd in his reahu,
She felt rebuked before her.

Through the land
Meantime the King's convoking voice went forth,
And from their palaces and monasteries
The theologians came, men who had grown
In midnight studies gray ; Prelates, and Priests,
And Doctors: teachers grave, and with great

names,
Serai)hic, Subtile, or Irrefragable,
By their admiring scholars dignified.

They met convened at Chinon, to the place
Of judgment, in St. Katharine's tane ;issignd.
The lioor with many a monumental stone
Was spread, and brass-ensculptured effigies
Of holy abbots lionor'd in their day.
Now to the grave gone down. The branching arms
Of many a ponderous pillar met aloft,
Wreath'd on the roof emboss'd. Through storied

panes
Of high arch'd windows came the tinctured light;
Pure water in a font beneath reflects
The many-color'd rays ; around tliat font
The fathers stand, and there with rites ordain'd
And signs symbolic strew the hallowing salt,
Wherewith the limpid water, consecrate,
So taught the Church, became a spell approved
Against the fiends of Satan's fallen crew' ;
A licit spell of mightier potency
Than e'er the hell-hags taught in Thessaly ;
Or they who sitting on the rifled grave.
By the blue tomb-fire's lurid light dim seen.
Share with the Gouls their ban(iuet.

This perform'd,
The Maid is summon'd. Round the sacred font,
Mark'd with the mystic tonsure and enrobed
In sacred vests, a venerable train.
They stand. The delegated Maid obeys
Their summons. As she came, a blush suffused
Her pallid cheek, such as might well beseem
One mindful still of maiden modesty,
Though to her mission true. Before the train
In reverent silence waiting their sage will,
With half-averted eye she stood composed.
So have I seen a single snow'-drop rise
Amid the russet leaves that hide tlie earth
In early spring, so seen it gently bend
In modest loveliness alone amid
The waste of winter.

By the IMaidcn's side
The Son of Orleans stood, prepared to vouch
That when on Charles the Maiden's eye had fix'd,
As led by pow-er miraculous, no fraud,
Nr)r juggling artifice of secret sign
Dissembled inspiration. As he stood
Steadily viewing the mysterious rites,
Thus to the attentive Maid t)ie President
Severely spake.

" If any fiend of Hell
Liirk in thy bosom, so to prompt the vaunt
Of inspiration, and to mock the power
Of God and holy Church, thus by the virtue
Of water hallowed in the name of God

Adjure I that foul spirit to depart
From his deluded prey."'

Slowly he spake,
And sprinkled water on the virgin's face.
Indignant at the unworthy charge, the Maid
Felt her cheek flush ; but soon, the transient glow
Fading, she answcr'd meek.

" Most holy Sires,
Ye reverend Fathers of the Christian church,
Most catholic ! I stand before you here
A poor weak woman ; of the grace vouchsafed.
How far unworthy, conscious ; yet though mean,
Innocent of fraud, and call'd by Heaven to be
Its minister of aid. Strange voices heard,
The dark and shadowing visions of the night.
And feelings which I may not dare to doubt.
These portents make me certain of the God
Within me; He who to these eyes revcal'd
My royal Master, mingled W'ith the crowd
And never seen till then. Such evidence
Given to my mission thus, and thus confirm'd
By public attestation, more to say,
Methinks, would little boot, — and less become
A silly Maid."

"Thou speakest," said the Priest,
" Of dark and shadowing visions of the night.
Canst thou remember. Maid, what vision first
Seem'd more than fancy's shaping .-' From such

tale.
Minutely told with accurate circumstance.
Some judgment might be form'd."

The Maid replied
"Amid the mountain valleys I had driven
My father's flock. The eve was drawing on,
When by a sudden storm surprised, I sought
A chapel's neighboring shelter; ruin'd now.
But I remember when its vesper bell
W^as heard among the hills, a pleasant sound.
That made me pause upon my homeward road,
Awakenino' in me comfortable thouijhts
Of holiness. The unsparing soldiery
Had sack'd the hamlet near, and none was left
Duly at sacred seasons to attend
St. Agnes' chapel.^'' In the desolate pile
I drove my flock, with no irreverent thoughts.
Nor mindless that the place on which I trod
Was holy ground. It was a fearful night I
Devoutly to the virgin Saint I pray'd.
Then heap'd the wither'd leaves which autumn

winds
Had drifted in, and laid me down upon them,
And sure I think I slept. But so it was
That, in the dead of night. Saint Agnes stood
Before mine eyes, such and so beautiful
.\s when, amid the house of wickedness,
The Power whom with such fervent love she served
Veil'd her with glory." And I saw her point
To the moss-grown altar, and the crucifix
Half hid by weeds and grass ; — and then I thought
I could have wither'd armies with a look.
For from the present Saint such divine power
I felt infused — 'Twas but a dream perhaps.
And yet methought that when a louder peal
Burst o'er the roof, and all was left again
Utterly dark, the bodily sense was clear

24

JOAN OF ARC,

BOOK III

And accurate in every circumstance
Of time and place."

Attentive to her words
Thus the Priest answer'd :

" Brethren, ye have heard
The woman's tale. Behoves us now to ask
Whether of holy Church a duteous child
Before our court appears, so not unlike
Heaven might vouchsafe its gracious miracle;
Or misbelieving heretic, whose thoughts.
Erring and vain, easily might stray beyond
All reason, and conceit strange dreams and signs
Impossible. Say, woman, from thy youth
Hast thou, as rightly mother Church demands,
Confess'd at stated times thy secret sins,
And, from the priestly power conferr'dby Heaven,
Sought absolution ? "

"Father," she replied,
" The forms of worship in mine earlier years
Waked my young mind to artificial awe,
And made me fear my God. Warm with the glow
Of health and exercise, whene'er I pass'd
The threshold of the house of prayer, I felt
A cold damp chill me ; 1 beheld the tapers
That with a pale and feeble glimmering
Dimm'd the noon-light; 1 heard the solemn mass.
And with strange feelings and mysterious dread
Telling my beads, gave to the mystic prayers
Devoutcst meaning. Often when I saw
The pictured flames writhe round a penanced soul,
I knelt in fear before the Crucifix,
And wept and pray'd, and trembled, and adored
A God of Terrors. But in riper years.
When as my soul grew strong in solitude,
I saw the eternal energy pervade
The boundless range of nature, with the sun
Pour life and radiance from his flamy path.
And on the lowliest floweret of the field
The kindly dew-drops shed. And then I felt
That He who form'd this goodly frame of things
Must needs be good, and with a Father's name
I call'd on Him, and from my burden'd heart
Pour'd out the yearnings of unmingled love.
Methinks it is not strange then, that I fled
The house of prayer, and made the lonely grove
My temple, at the foot of some old oak
Watching the little tribes that had their world
Within its mossy bark ; or laid me down
Beside the rivulet whose murmuring
Was silence to my soul,^* and mark'd the swarm
Whose light-edged shadows on the bedded sand
Mirror'd their mazy sports, — the insect hum,
The flow of waters, and the song of birds
Making a holy music to mine ear :
Oh ! was it strange, if for such scenes as these,
Such deep devoutness, such intense delight
Of quiet adoration, I forsook
The house of worship .'' strange that when I felt
How God had made my spirit quick to feel
And love whate'er was beautiful and good,
And from aught evil and deform'd to slirink
Even as with instmct ; — father ! was it strange
That in my heart 1 had no thought of sin,
And did not need forgiveness .' "

As she spake

The Doctors stood astonish'd, and some while
Tliey listen'd still in wonder. But at length
A Monk replied,

" Woman, thou sccm'st to scorn
The ordinances of our holy Church ;
And, if I rightly understand thy words.
Nature, thou say'st, taught thee in solitude
Thy feehngs of religion, and that now
Masses and absolution and the use
Of the holy wafer, are to thee unknown.
But how could Nature teach thee true religion.
Deprived of these ? Nature doth lead to sin,
But "tis the Priest alone can teach remorse.
Can bid St. Peter ope the gates of Heaven,
And from the penal fires of purgatory
Set the soul free. Could Nature teach thee this .■"
Or tell thee that St. Peter holds the keys.
And that his successor's unbounded power
Extends o'er either world .' Although thy life
Of sin were free, if of this holy truth
Ignorant, thy soul in liquid flames must rue
Its error."

Thus he spake ; applauding looks
Went round. Nor dubious to reply the Maid
Was silent.

" Fathers of the holy Church,
If on these points abstruse a simple maid
Like me should err, impute not you the crime
To self-will'd reason, vaunting its own strength
Above eternal wisdom. True it is
That for long time I have not heard the sound
Of mass high-chanted, nor with trembling lips
Partook the holy wafer : yet the birds
Who to the matin ray prelusive pour'd
Their joyous song, methought did warble forth
Sweeter thanksgiving to Religion's ear
In their wild melody of happiness.
Than ever rung along the high-arch'd roofs
Of man : — yet never from the bending vine
Pluck'd I its ripen'd clusters thanklessly.
Or of that God unmindful, who bestow'd
The bloodless banquet. Ye have told me, Sirs,
That Nature only teaches man to sin !
If it be sin to seek the wounded lamb,
To bind its wounds, and bathe them with my tears,
This is what Nature taught ! No, Fathers, no !
It is not Nature that doth lead to sin :
Nature is all benevolence, all love.
All beauty ! In the greenwood's quiet shade
There is no vice that to the indignant cheek
Bids the red current rush ; no misery there ;
No wretched mother, who with pallid face
And famine-fallen hangs o'er her hungry babes,
With such a look, so wan, so woe-begone,
As shall one day, with damning eloquence.
Against the oppressor plead ! — Nature teach sin !
Oh blasphemy against the Holy One,
Who made us in tbe image of Himself,
Who made us all for happiness and love,
Infinite happiness, infinite love.
Partakers of his own eternity."

Solemn and slow the reverend Priest replied,
" Much, woman, do I doubt that all-wise Heaven
Would thus vouchsafe its gracious miracles

BUUK IV.

JOAN OF ARC.

25

Oil one foreilooiu'd to inisory ; for so dooiii'd
Is iJiat deluded one, wlio, of the mass
Unheeding, and the Church's saving power,
Deems Nature sinless. Therefore, mark me well !
Uretiiren, 1 would propose this woman try
The iioly ordeal. Let her, bound and search'd,
Lest haply in her clothes should be conceal'd
Some holy relic so profaned, be cast
In some deep pond ; there if she float, no doubt
The fiend upholds; but if at once she sink,
It is a sign that Providence displays
1 ler free from witchcrafl. This done, let her walk
Blindfold and bare o'er ploughshares heated red.
And o'er these past, her naked arm immerse
In scalding water. If from these she come
Unhurt, to holy father of the church,
Most blessed Pope, we then refer the cause
For judgment : and this Chief, the Son of Orleans,
Who comes to vouch the royal person known
By her miraculous power, shall pass witli her
The sacred trial."

" Grace of God ! " exclaim'd
The astonish'd Bastard ; " plunge me in the pool,
Oer red-hot ploughshares make me skip to please
Your dotard fancies ! Fathers of the church,
Where is your gravity .' what ; elildr-like
Would ye this fairer than Susannah eye ?
Ye call for ordeals ; and I too demand
Tjie noblest ordeal, on the English host
By victory to approve her mission sent
From favoring Heaven. To the Pope refer
For judgment I Know ye not that France even now
Stands tottering on destruction I "

Starting then
With a wild look, the mission'd Maid e.\claim'd,
•' The sword of God is here ! the grave shall speak
To manifest me ! "

Even as she spake,
A pale blue flame rose from the trophied tomb
Beside her ; and within that house of death
A sound of arms was heard, as if below
A warrior, buried in his armor, stirr'd.

" Hear ye ! " the Damsel cried ; " these are the
arms
Which shall flash terror o'er the hostile host.
These, in the presence of our Lord the King,
And of the assembled people, I will take
Here from the sepulchre, where many an age,
They, incorruptible, have lain conceal'd,
For me reserved, the Delegate of Heaven."

Recovering from amaze, the Priest replied :
" Thou art indeed the Delegate of Heaven !
What thou hast said surely thou shall perforin.
We ratify thy mission. Go in peace."

THE FOURTH BOOK.

The feast was spread, the sparkling bowl went

round.
And in the assembled court the minstrel harp'd
4

A song of otlier days. Sudden they lieard
The horn's loud blast. " This is no time I'or cares ;
Feast ye the messenger without! " cried Charles,
" Enough hath of the wearying day been given
To the public weal."

Obedient to the King
Tiie guard invites the way-worn messenger.
"Nay, I will see the monarch," he replied,
" And he must hear my tidings; duty-urged,
I have for many a long league hasten'd on.
Not thus to be repell'd." Then with strong arm
Removing him who barr'd his onward way,
The hall he cnter'd.

" King of France ! I come
From Orleans, speedy and cflectual aid
Demanding for her gallant garrison.
Faithful to thee, though thinn'd in many a fight.
And now sore pressed by want. Rouse thou thy-
self.
And with the spirit that becomes a King
Responsive to his people's loyalty,
Bring succor to the brave who in thy cause
Abide the extremity of war."

He said.
And from the hall departing, in amaze
At his audacious bearing left the court.
The King exclaim'd, " But little need to send
Quick succor to this gallant garrison.
If to the English half so firm a front
They bear in battle ! "

" In the field, my liege,"
Dunois replied, " yon Knight hath scrv'd thee well.
Him have I seen the foremost of the fight,
Wielding so manfully his battle-axe,
That whcrosoe'er he turn'd, the aft'righted foe
Let fall their palsied arms with powerless stroke,
Desperate of safety. I do marvel much
That he is here : Orleans must be hard press'd
To send the bravest of her garrison
On such connnission."

Swift the Maid exclaim'd,
" I tell thee. Chief, that there tlie English wolves
Shall never raise their yells of victory !
The will of God defends those fated walls,
And resting in full faith on that high will,
I mock their efforts. But the night draws on ;
Retire we to repose. To-morrow's sun.
Breaking the darkness of the sepulchre,
Shall on that armor gleam, through many an age
There for this great emergency reserved."
She said, and rising from the board, retired.

Meantime the herald's brazen voice proclaim'd
Coming solemnity, and far and wide
Spread the glad tidings. Then all labor ceased ;
The ploughman from the unfinish'd furrow hastes ;
The armorer's anvil beats no more the din
Of future slaughter. Through the thronging streets
The buzz of asking wonder hums along.

On to St. Katharine's sacred fane they go;
The holy fathers with the imaged cross
Leading the long procession. Next, as one
Suppliant for mercy to the King of kings,
And grateful for the benefits of Heaven,

26

JOAN OF ARC,

BOOK IV.

The Monarch pass'd, and by his side tlie Maid ;

Her lovely limbs robed in a snow-white vest,

Wistless that every eye on her was bent,

With stately step she moved ; her laboring soul

To high thoughts elevate ; and gazing round

AVitli a full eye, that of the circling throng

And of the visible world unseeing, seem d

Fix'd upon objects seen by none beside.

Near her the Avarlike Son of Orleans came

Prccniinent. lie, nerving his young frame

With exercise robust, had scaled the cliiF,

And plunging in the river's full-swollen stream,

Stemm'd with broad breast its current ; so his form.

Sinewy and firm, and fit for deeds of arms,

Tower'd above the throng effeminate.

No dainty bath had from his hardy limbs

Kfl^accd the hauberk's honorable marks ; ''"

His helmet bore of hostile steel the dints

Many and deep ; upon his pictured shield

A Lion vainly struggled in the toils,

Whilst by his side the cub with pious rage,

Assail'd the huntsman. Tremouille followed them.

Proud of the favor of a Prince who seem'd

Given up to vain delights; conspicuous he

In arms with azure and with gold anneal'd,

Gaudily graceful, by no hostile blade

Defaced, nor e'er with hostile blood distain'd ;

Trimly accoutred court-habilimcnts,

Gay lady-dazzling armor, fit to adorn

Tourney, or tilt, the gorgeous pageantry

Of mimic warfare. After him there came

A train of courtiers, summer flics that sport

In the sunbeam of favor, insects sprung

From the court dunghill, greedy blood-suckers.

The foul corruption-gender'd swarm of state.

As o'er some flowery field the busy bees
Fill with their happy hum the fragrant air,
A grateful music to the traveller,
Who in the shade of some wide-spreading tree
Rests on his way awhile ; or like the sound
Of many waters down some far-off steep
Holding their endless course, the murmur rose
Of admiration. Every gazing eye
Dwelt on the Prophetess ; of all beside.
The long procession and the gorgeous train,
Though glittering they with gold and sparkling

gems.
And their rich plumes high waving to the air,
Heedless.

The consecrated dome they reach,
Rear'd to St. Katharine's holy memory.
Her tale the altar told ; how Maximin,
His raised lip kindled with a savage smile.
In such deep fury bade the tenter'd wheel
Rend her life piecemeal, that the very face
Of the hard executioner relax'd
With pity; calm she heard, no drop of blood
Forsook her cheek, her steady eye was turn'd
Heaven-ward, and hope and meekest piety
Beam'd in that patient look. Nor vain her trust ;
For lo ! the Angel of the Lord descends,
And crumbles with his fiery touch the wheel !
One glance of holy triumph Katharine cast.
Then bow'd her to the sword of martyrdom. ^^

Her eye averting from the pictured tale,
The delegated damsel knelt and pour'd
To Heaven her earnest prayer.

A trophied tomb
Stood near the altar where some warrior slept
The sleep of death beneath. A massy stone
And rude-ensculptured effigy o'erlaid
The sepulchre. In silent wonderment
The expectant multitude with eager eye
Gaze, listening as the mattock's heavy stroke
Invades the tomb's repose : the heavy stroke
Sounds hollow : over the high-vaulted roof
Roll the repeated echoes : soon the day
Dawns on the grave's long night, the slant sunbeam
Falls on the arms inshrined, the crested helm.
The bauldrick, and the shield, and sacred sword.^^
A sound of awe-repress'd astonishment
Rose from the crowd. The delegated Maid
Over her robes the hallowed breastplate threw,
Self-fitted to her form ; on her helm'd head
The white plumes nod, majestically slow ;
She lifts the buckler and the sacred sword,
Gleaming portentous light.

The wondering crowd
Raise their loud shout of transport. " God of

Heaven,"
The Maid exclaim'd, " Father all merciful !
Devoted to whose holy will, I wield
The sword of vengeance ; go before our host !
All-just avenger of the innocent,
Be thou our Champion ! God of Peace, preserve
Those whom no lust of glory leads to arms."

She ceased, and with an eager hush the crowd
Still listen'd ; a brief while throughout the dome
Deep silence dwelt ; then with a sudden burst
Devout and full, they raised the choral hymn,
" Thee Lord we praise, our God ! " the tlirong

without
Catch the strange tidings, join the hymn of joj',
And thundering transport peals along the heaven.

As through the parting crowd the Virgin pass'd,
He who from Orleans on the yesternight
Demanded succor, clasp'd with warmth her hand,
And with a bosom-thrilling voice exclaim'd,
" Ill-omen'd Maid ! victim of thine own worth,
Devoted for this king-curst realm of France,
Ill-omen'd Maid, I pity thee ! " so saying,
He turn'd into the crowd. At his strange words
Distufb'd, the warlike Virgin pass'd along,
And much revolving in her troubled mind,
Retrod the court.

And now the horn announced
The ready banquet ; they partook the feast,^''
Then rose and in the cooling water cleansed
Their hands, and seated at the board again
Enjoy'd the bowl, or scented high with spice.
Or flavor'd with the fragrant summer fruit.
Or luscious with metheglin mingled rich.™
Meantime the Trouveur struck the harp; he sung
Of Lancelot du Lake, the truest Knight
That ever loved fair Lady ; and the youth
Of Cornwall ''' underneath whose maiden sword
The strength of Ireland fell ; and he who struck

BOOK IV.

JOAN OP ARC.

27

Tlie dolorous stroke,'- the blaim-less and the brave,

VVlio died beneath a brotlier's errin<r arm.

Ye have not perish'd, Chiefs of Carducl !

The songs of earlier years embalm your fame-

And haply yet some Poet shall arise.

Like that divinest Tuscan," and enwrcathe

The immortal garland for himself and you.

The harp still rung beneath the high-arch'd roof,
And listening eager to the favorite lay,
The guests sat silent, when into the hall
The Messenger from that besieged town,
Ilcenter'd. " It is pleasant, King of France,"
Said he, " to sit and hear the harper's song :
Far other music hear the men of Orleans !
Famine is there ; and there the imploring cr}^
Of Hunger ceases not."

" Insolent man ! "
Exclaim'd the Monarch, " cease to interrupt
Our liour of festival; it is not thine
To instruct me in my duty."

Of reproof
Careless, the stranger to the minstrel cried,
"Why harpest thou of good King Arthur's fame
Amid these walls .' Virtue and genius love
That lofty lay. Hast thou no loose, lewd tale
To pamper and provoke the appetite .'
Such should procure thee worthy recompense !
Or rather sing thou of that wealthy Lord,
Who took the ewe lainb from the poor man's bosom,
That was to him even as a daughter I Charles,
This parable would I tell, prophet-like.
And look at thee and say, ' Thou art the man I ' "

He said, and with a quick and troubled step
Withdrew. Astonish'd at his daring guise.
The guests sat heedless of the lay awhile,
Pondering his words mysterious, till at length
The Court dispersed. Retiring from the hall,
Charles and the delegated damsel sought
The inner palace. There the gentle Queen
Awaited them : with her Joan lov'd to pass
Her intervals of rest; lor she Iiad won
The Virgin's heart by her mild melancholy,
The calm and duteous patience that deplored
A husband's cold half-love. To her she told
With what stranjre words the messenger from

Orleans
Had roused uneasy wonder in her mind ;
For on her ear yet vibrated his voice.
When lo ! again he came, and at the door
Stood scowling round.

" Wh}' dost thou haunt me thus,"
The monarch cried ; " is there no i)lace secure
From thy rude insolence .' unmanner'd man !
I know thee not ! "

" Then learn to knf)w me, Charles ! "
Solemnly he replied; "read well my face,
That thou may'st know it on that dreadful day,
When at the Throne of God I shall demand
His justice on thee ! " Turning from the King,
To Agnes as she entered, in a tone
More low, more mournfully severe, he cried,
" Dost thou too know me not ! "

She glanced on him,

And pale and breathless hid her head convulsed
In the JNIaid's bosom.

" King of France ! " he said,
" She loved me, and by mutual word and will
W^o were betroth'd, when, in unhappy hour,
I left her, as in fealty bound, to fight
Thy battles. In mine absence thou didst come
'i'o tempt her then unspotted purity —
For pure she was. — Alas ! these courtly robes
Hide not the indelible stain of infamy !
Thou canst not with thy golden belt put on
An honorable name,'^ O lost to me,
And to thyself, forever, ever lost,
My poor polluted Agnes ! — Charles, that faith
Almost is shaken, which should be henceforth
My only hope : thou hast thy wicked will.
While I the victim of her guilt and thine,
TJiough meriting alike from her and thee
Far other guerdon, bear about with me
A wound for which this earth affords no balm,
And doubt Heaven's justice."

So he said, and frown'd
Austere as he who at Mahommed's door
Knock'd loud and frequent, at whose dreadful mien
Stricken with terror, all beholders fled.
Even the prophet, almost terrified.
Scarcely could bear his presence ; for he knew
That this was the Death-Angel Azrael,
And that his hour was come. Conscious of guilt
The Monarch sate, nor could endure to face
Ilis bosom-probing frown. The Maid of Arc
Meantime had read his features, and she cried
" I know thee, Conrade ! " Rising from her seat.
She took his hand, for he stood motionless,
Gazing on Agnes now with steady eye.
Severe though cahn : him from the Court she drew,
And to the river side, resisting not.
Both sad and silent, led ; till at the last
As from a dream awaking, Conrade look'd
Full on the Maid, and falling on her neck.
He wept.

"I know thee, Damsel ! " he exclaim'd.
" Dost thou remember tliat tempestuous night,
When I, a weather-beaten traveller, sought
Your hospitable door .' Ah me ! I then
Was happy ! You too sojourn'd then in peace.
Fool that I was ! I blamed such happiness,
Arraign'd it as a guilty, selfish sloth,
Unhappil)' prevailing, so 1 fear me.
Or why art thou at Chinon .' "

Him the Maid
Answering, address'd : " I do remember well,
That night ; for then the holy Spirit first.
Waked by thy words, possess'd ine."

Conrade cried,
"Poor JNIaiden, thou wert happy ! thou hadst lived
Blessing and blest, if I had never stray 'd,
Needlessl}' rigid, from my peaceful path.
And thou hast left thine home then, and obey'd
Tlie feverish fancies of an ardent brain !
And hast thou left hiin too, the youth whose eye
Forever glancing on thee, spake so well
Affection's eloquent tale ? "

So as he said,
Rush'd the warm purple to tlie Virgin's cheek

28

JOAN OF ARC.

BOOK IV

"I atn alone," slie answered, "for tliis realm

Devoted." Nor to answer more the Maid

Endured, for many a melancholy thought

Throng'd on her aching memory. Her mind scye

Beheld Domrcmi and the fields of Arc :

Her burden'd heart was full ; such grief she felt,

Yet such sweet solacing of self-applause,

As cheers a banish'd Patriot's lonely hours

When Fancy pictures to him all he loved,

Till the big tear-drop rushes o'er its orb.

And drowns the soft enchantment.

With a look
That spake solicitous wonder, Conrade eyed
The silent Maid ; nor would the Maid repress
Tlie thoughts that swell'd witliin her, or from him
Hide her soul's workings. " 'Twas on the last day
Before I left Domremi ; eve had closed ;
I sat beside the brook ; my soul was full,
As if inebriate with Divinity.
Then, Conrade ! I beheld a ruffian herd
Circle a flaming pile, where at the stake
A woman stood ; tlie iron bruised her breast.
And round her limbs, half-garmented, the fire
Curl'd its fierce flakes. I saw her countenance,
I knew Myself." '^ Then, in a tone subdued
Of calmness, " There are moments when the soul
From her own impulse with strange dread recoils,
Suspicious of herself; but with a full,
And perfect faith I know this vision sent
From Heaven, and feel of its unerring truth,
As that God liveth, that I live myself.
The feeling that deceives not."

By the hand
Her Conrade held and cried, " Ill-fated Maid,
That I have torn thee from aflfection's breast.
My soul will groan in anguish. Thou wilt serve.
Like me, the worthless Court, and having served.
In the hour of ill abandon 'd, thou wilt curse
The duty that deluded. Of the world
Fatigued, and loathing at my fellow-men,
I shall be seen no more. There is a path''* —
The eagle hath not mark'd it, the young wolf
Knows not its hidden windings : I have trod
That path, and found a melancholy den,
Fit place for penitence and hopeless woe.
Where sepulchred, the ghost of what he was,
Conrade may pass his few and evil days.
Waiting the wish'd-for summons to lay down
His weary load of life."

But then the Maid
Fix'd on the warrior her reproving eye ;
" I pass'd the fertile Auxerrois," she said ;
" The vines had spread their interwoven shoots
Over the unpruned vineyards, and the grape
Rotted beneath the leaves ; for there was none
To tread the vintage, and the birds of Heaven
Had had their fill. I saw the cattle start
As they did hear the loud alarum-bell,"
And with a piteous moaning vainly seek
To fly the coming slaughterers. I look'd back
Upon the cottage where I had partaken
The peasant's meal, — and saw it wrapt in flames.
And then I thank'd my God that I had burst
The ties, strong as they are, which bind us down
To selfish happiness, and on this earth

Was as a pilgrim™ — Conrade ! rouse thyself !
Cast the weak nature oft'!'* A time like this
Is not for gentler feelings, for the glow
Of love, the overflowings of the heart.
There is oppression in thy country, Conrade !
There is a cause, a holy cause, that needs
The brave man's aid. Live for it, and enjoy
Earth's noblest recompense, thine own esteem;
Or die in that good cause, and thy reward
Shall sure be found in Heaven."

He answer'd not,
But pressing to his heart the virgin's hand,
Hasten'd across the plain. She with dim eyes —
For gushing tears obscured them — follow'd him
Till lost in distance. With a weight of thought
Opprest, along the poplar-planted Vienne
Awhile she wander'd, then upon the bank
She laid her down, and watch'd the tranquil stream
Flow with a quiet murmuring, by the clouds
Of evening purpled. The perpetual flow,
The ceaseless murmuring, lull'd her to such dreams
As memory in her melancholy mood
Loves best. The wonted scenes of Arc arose ;
She saw the forest brook, the weed that waved
Its long green tresses in the stream, the crag
Which overbrow'd the spring, and that old yew
Which through the bare and rifted rock had forced
Its twisted trunk, the berries cheerful red
Starring its gloomy green. Her pleasant home
She saw, and those who made that home so dear,
Her lov'd lost friends. The mingled feelings fill'd
Her eyes, when from behind a voice was heard —
'• O Lady I canst thou tell me where to find
The Maid whom Heaven hath sent to rescue

France ? "
Tlirill'd by the well-known tones, she started up,
And fell upon the neck of Theodore.

" Have 1 then found thee ! " cried the bnpas-

sioned youth ;
" Henceforth we part no more ; but where thou

goest
Thither go I. Beloved ! in the front
Of battle thou shalt find me at thy side ;
And in the breach this breast shall be thy shield
And rampart. Oh, ungenerous ! Why from me
Conceal the inspiration .' why from me
Hide thy miraculous purpose.' Am I then
So all-unworthy that thou shouldst set forth
Beneath another's guidance .' "

Thus he cried,
Mingling reproach with tenderness, yet still
Clasping in warm embrace the maid beloved.
She of her bidding and futurity
Awhile forgetful, patient of the embrace.
With silent tears of joy bedew'd his neck.
At length, " I hope," she cried, " thou art not come
With heavier fault and breach of nearer tie !
How did thy mother spare thee, — thou alone
The stay and comfort of her widowed age .''
Did she upon thy parting steps bestow
Her free-will blessing.^ or hast thou set forth.
Which Heaven forbid, unlicensed and unblest.' "

" Oh, surely not unblest ! " the youth replied ;

BOOK V.

JOAN OF ARC.

29

Yot conscious of his mirc])(>nto(l fiiult,
\\'M\ countenance llush'd, anil lUUiTing in reply :
" She wept at my departure ; she would fain
Have turned me from my purpose, and my heart
I'erliaps had foil'd me, if it had not glow'd
Wltli ardor like thine own; the sacred fire
With which thy bosom burns had kindled me;
High in prophetic hope, I bade her place
Her trust in Heaven; I bade her look to hear
Good tidings soon of glorious victory;
I told her I should soon return, — return
With thee, and thou wouldst be to her old age
What Madelon had been."

As thus he spake.
Warm with tlie imaginary bliss, he clasp'd
Tlie dear one closer to his yearning heart.
But the devoted Virgin in his arms
Started and slmdder'd, for the flaming pile
Flashed on remembrance now, and on her soul
The wliole terrific vision rose again.
A death-like paleness at the dreadful thought
Wither'd her cheek; cold damps suffused her brow,
And falling on the neck of Theodore,
Feeble and faint she hung. His eager eye
Concentring all the anguish of the soul,
And strain'd in anxious love, gazed fearfully
With wondering anguish ; till ennobling thoughts
Of her high mission roused her, and her soul
Collected, and she spake.

" My Theodore,
Thou hast done ill to quit thy mother's home !
Alone and aged she will weep for thee.
Wasting her little that is left of life
In anguish. Now go back again to Arc,
And cheer her wintry hours of widowhood,
And love my memory there. '

Swift he exclaim'd,
" Nay, Maid ! the pang of parting is o'erpast.
And my dear mother looks for the glad hour
When we shall both return. Amid the war
How many an arm will seek thy single life,
How many a sword and spear ! I will go with thee
And spread the guardian shield

" Nay," she replied,
" I shall not need thy succor in the war.
Me, Heaven, if so seem good to its high will,
Will save. I shall be happier, Theodore,
Thinking that thou dost sojourn safe at home.
And make thy mother happy."

The youth's cheek
A rapid blush disorder'd. " Oh ! the court
Is pleasant then, and thou wouldst fain forget
A humble villager, who only boasts
The treasure of the heart I"

She look'd at him
With a reproaching eye of tenderness:
" Injurious man ! devoted for this realm,
I go a willing victim. The dark veil
Hath been withdrawn for me, and I have seen
The fearful features of Futurity.
Yes, Theodore, I shall redeem my country,
Abandoning for it the joys of life.
Yea, life itself. " Then on his neck she fell.
And with a faltering voice, " Return to Arc !
[ do not tell thee there are other maids

As fair; for thou wilt love my memory.

Hallowing to me the temple of thy heart.

Worthy a happier, not a better love,**

My Theodore ! " — Then, pressing his pale lips,

A last and holy kiss the virgin fix'd.

And fled across the plain.

She reach'd the court
Breathless. The mingled movements of her mind
Sliook every fibre. Sad and sick at heart.
Fain to her lonely chamber's solitude
The Maiden had retired ; but her the King
Met on the threshold. He of the late scene
Forgetful and his crime, as cheerful sccm'd
As though there had not been a God in Heaven !
" Enter the hall," he said, " the maskers there
Join in the dance. Why, Maiden, art thou sad.'
Has that rude madman shook thy gentle frame
With his strange speeches.''"

Ere the Maid replied,
The Son of Orleans came with joyful speed,
Poising his massy javelin. " Thou hast roused
The sleeping virtue of the sons of France ;
They crowd around the standard," cried the chief.
" Our brethren, pent in Orleans, every moment
Gaze from the watch-tower with the sickening eye
Of expectation."

Then the King exclaim'd,
" O chosen by Heaven ! defer one day thy march,
That humbled at the altar we may join
The general prayer. Be these our holy rites
To-morrow's task; — to-night for merriment! "

The Maid replied, " The wretched ones in
Orleans,
In fear and hunger and expiring hope,
Await my succor, and my prayers would plead
In Heaven against me, did they waste one hour
When active duty calls. For this night's mirth
Hold me excused ; in truth I am not fit
For merriment ; a heavy charge is on me.
And I must put away all mortal thoughts."^'
Her heart was full, and pausing, she rcpress'd
The imbiddcn anguish. " Lo ! they crowd around
The standard ! Thou, Dunois, the chosen troops
Marshal in speed, for early with the dawn
We march to rescue Orleans from the foe."

THE FIFTH BOOK.

Scarce had the early dawn from Chinon's towers

Made visible the mist that curl'd along

The river's winding way, when from her couch

The martial Maid arose. She mail'd her limbs;

The white plumes nodded o'er her helmed head ;

She girt the sacred falchion by her side.

And, like a youth who from his mother's arms,

For his first field impatient, breaks away,

Poising the lance went forth.

Twelve hundred men,
Rearing in order'd ranks their glittering spears,
Await her coming. Terrible in arms
Before them towcr'd Dunois, his manly face

30

JOAN OF ARC.

BOOK V.

O'crshadow'd by tlie helmet's iron cheeks.

The assembled court gazed on the marshall'd train.

And at the gate the aged prelate stood

To pour his blessing on the chosen host.

And now a soft and solemn symphony

Was heard, and chanting high the hallow'd hymn,

From the near convent came the vestal maids.

A iioly banner, woven by virgin hands.

Snow-white they bore. A mingled sentiment

Of awe and eager ardor for the fight,

Tlirill'd through the army, as the reverend man

Took the white standard, and with heaven- ward eye

Call'd on tlie God of Justice, blessing it.

The Maid, her brows in reverence unlielm'd,

Her dark iiair floating on the niornino- gale.

Knelt to his prayer, and stretching forth her hand

Received the mystic banner. From the host

A loud and universal shout burst forth,

As rising from the ground, upon her brow

Slie placed the plumed casque, and waved on high

The banner'd lilies. On their way they march,

And dim in distance, soon the towers of Chinon

Fade from the eye reverted.

The sixth sun,
Purpling the sky with his dilated light,
Sunk westering; when embosom'd in tlie dcptli
Of that old forest, wjiich for many a league
Shadow'd the hills and vales of Orleannois,
Tliey pitch their tents. The hum of occujjation
Sounds ceaseless. Waving to the evening- crale
Tlie streamers flutter; and ascending slow
Beneatli the foliage of the forest trees.
With many a light hue tinged, the curling smoke
Melts in the impurpled air. Leaving her tent.
The martial Maiden wandcr'd through the wood ;
There, by a streamlet, on the mossy bank
Reclined, she saw a damsel, her long locks
With willow wreathed ; upon her lap there lay
A dark-hair'd man, listening the while she sung
Sad ditties, and enwrcathed to bind his brow
The melancholy garland. At the sound
Of one in arms approaching, she had fled ;
But Conrade, looking upward, recognized
The Maid of Arc. '•' Nay, fear not, Isabel,"
Said he, "for this is one of gentle kind,
Whom even the wretched need not fear to love."

So saying, he arose and took her hand.
And press'd it to his bosom. " My weak heart
Though school'd by wrongs to loath at human kind,
Will beat, rebellious to its own resolves.
Come hither, outcast one ! and call her friend
And s!ie will be thy friend more readily
Because thou art unhappy."

Isabel
Saw a tear starting in the virgin's eye
And glancing upon Conrade, she too wept.
Wailing his wilder'd senses.

" Mission'd Maid ' "
Tlie v/arrior cried, "be happy ! for tny power
Can make this sufferer so. From Orleans driven,
Orphan'd by war, and of her only friend
Bereft, I found her wandering in the wilds.
Worn out with want and wretchedness. Thou,
Joan,

Wilt his beloved to the youth restore ;
And trust me, Maid ! the miserable feel
When they on others bestow happiness,
Their happiest consolation."

She replied,
Pressing the damsel's hand, in the mild tone
Of equal friendship, solacing her cares.
" Soon shall we enter Orleans," said the Maid ;
A few hours in her dream of victory
England shall triuinpli, then to be awaked
By the loud thunder of Almighty wrath !
Irksome meantime the busy camp to me
A solitary woman. Isabel,
Wert thou the while companion of my tent,
Lightlier tlie time would pass. Return with me ;
I may not long be absent."

So she spake.
The wanderer in half-utter'd words express'd
Grateful assent. " Art thou astonish'd, then,
TJiat one though powerful is benevolent ?
In truth thou well mayst wonder!" Conrade

cried.
" But little cause to love the mighty ones
Hath the low cottager ; for with its shade
Too oft doth Power, a death-dew-dropping tree,
Blast every herb beneath its baleful boughs !
Tell thou thy sufferings, Isabel ! Relate
How warr'd tlie chieftains, and the people died.
The mission'd Virgin hath not heard thy w^oes ;
And pleasant to mine ear the twice-told tale
Of sorrow."

Gazing on the martial Maid
She read her wish, and spake. " A wanderer now,
Friendless and hopeless, still I love to think
Upon my native home, and call to mind
Each haunt of careless youth ; the woodbined wall,
The jessamine that round the straw-roof 'd cot
Its fragrant branches wreathed, beneath whose

shade
I wont to sit and watch the setting sun,
And hear the thrush's song. Nor far remote,
As o'er the subject landscape round I gazed.
The towers of Ycnville rose upon the view.
A foreign master holds my father's home !
I, far away, remember the past years.
And weep.

" Two brethren form'd our family ;
Humble we were, and happy; honest toil
Procured our homely sustenance ; our herds
Duly at morn and evening to my hand
Gave their full stores ; the vineyard we had rear'd
Purpled its clusters in the southern sun.
And, plenteous produce of my father's toil,
The yellow harvest billow'd o'er the plain.
How cheerfully around the blazing hearth.
When all the labor of the day was done,
We past the evening hours ; for they would sing
Or merry roundelay, or ditty sad
Of maid forsaken and the willow weed,
Or of the doughty Paladins of France
Some warlike fit, the while my spinning-wheel
A fitting music made.

" Thus long we lived.
And happy. To a neighboring youth my hand,
In holy wedlock soon to be consign'd,

BOOK V.

JOAN OF ARC.

31

Was plighted : my poor Francis ! " Here she paused,
And liere she wept awhile.

" We did not think
The desolating stream of war would reach
To us; but soon as with the whirlwind's speed
Iluin rush'd round us.*'- jVIchun, Clcry, fell,
Tiio bauner'd Leopard waved on Gergcau's wall ;
JJnugcnci yielded ; soon the foe approach'd
The towers of Ycnville.

" Fatal was the hour
To nie and mine : for from the wall, alas !
The rusty sword was taken, and the shield
Which long had moulder'd on the mouldering nail.
To meet the war repair'd. No more was heard
The ballad, or tlie merry roundelay ;
The clattering hammer's clank, the grating file
Harsh sounded through the da}' a dismal din ;
I never shall forget their mournful sound !

" My father stood encircling his old limbs
In long-forgotten arms. ' Come, boys,' he cried ;
' 1 did not tliink that this gray head again
Should bear the helmet's weight ; but in the field
Better to bravely die a soldier's death.
Than here be tamely butclier'd. Isabel,
Go to the abbey ! if we should survive,
We soon shall meet again ; if not, my child.
There is a better world I '

In broken words,
Lifting his eyes to Heaven, mj' father breathed
His blessing on me. As they went away,
My brethren gazed on me, and wrung my hand
In silence, for they loved their sister well.
From the near cottage Francis join'd the troop.
Then did I look on our forsaken home,
And almost sob my very soul away ;
For all my hopes of happiness were fled.
Even like a dream 1 "

" Perish these mighty ones,"
Cried Conrade, " these who let destruction loose.
Who walk elated o'er their fields of fame.
And count the thousands that lie slaughter'd there,
And with the bodies of the innocent, rear
Their pyramid of glory ! perish these,
The epitome of all the pestilent plagues
That Egypt knew ! who send their locust swarms
O'er ravaged realms, and bid the brooks run blood.
Fear and Destruction go before their path.
And Famine dogs tlieir footsteps. God of Justice,
Let not the innocent blood cry out in vain ! "

Thus while he spake, the murnmr of the camp
Rose on their ear ; first like the distant sound
When the full-foliaged forest to the storm
Shakes its hoarse head ; anon with louder din ;
And through the opening glade gleam'd many a fire.
Tlie Virgin's tent they enter'd ; there the board
^S^as spread, the wanderer of the fare partook,
Then thus her tale renew'd : —

" Slow o'er the hill
Whose rising head conceard our cot I past.
Yet on my journey paused awhile, and gazed
And wept ; for often had I cross'd the hill
With cheerful step, and seen the rising smoke
Of hospitable fire ; alas ! no smoke

Curl'd o'er its melanclioly chimneys now !
Orleans I reach'd. There in the suburbs stood
The abbey ; and ere long 1 learnt the fall
Of Yenville.

" On a day, a soldier ask'd
For Isabel. Scarce could my ("altering feet
Support me. It was Francis, and alone —
The sole survivor of that company !

" And soon the foes approach'd : impending war
Soon sadden'd Orleans.*^ There the bravest chiefs
Assembled : Thouars, Coarase, Ciiabann<'S,
And the Sire Chapclle,'*'' in successful war
Since wounded to the death ; and that good Knight
Giresme of Rhodes, who in a better cause
Can never wield the crucifix that hilts
His hallowed sword; '^^ and Xaintraillcs ransom'd

now,
And Fayette late released, and that young Duke*^
Who at Verncuil senseless with many a wound
Fell prisoner, and La Hire, the merriest man "'
That ever yet did win his soldiers' love ;
And over all for hardihood reiiown'd
The Bastard Orleans.

" These within the town
E.xpect the foe. Twelve hundred chosen men,
Well tried in war, uproar the guardian shield
Beneath their banners. Dreadful was the sight
Of preparation. The wide suburbs stretch'd
Along the pleasant borders of the Loire,
Late throng'd with luultitudcs, now feel the hand
Of ruin. 'These preventive care destroys,
Lest England, shelter'd by the friendly walls.
Securely should approach. The monasteries
Fell in the general waste. The holy monks
Unwillingly their long-accustom'd haunts
Abandon, haunts where every gloomy nook
Call'd to awaken'd memory some trace
Of vision seen, or sound miraculous.
Trembling and terrified, their noiseless cells.
For the rude uproar of a world unknown.
The nuns desert: their abbess, more composed.
Collects her maids around, and tells her beads.
And pours the timid prayer of piety.
The pioneers, by day and night employ'd,
Throw up the violated earth, to impede
The foe : the hollow chambers of the dead
Echo'd beneath their stroke. The brazen tomb
Which late recorded death, in the furnace cast
Is made to inflict it now. Sad sight it was
To see so wide a waste ; the aged ones
HangincT their heads, and weeping as they went
O'er the fallen dwellinjrs of their happier years ;
The stern and sullen silence of the men
Musing on vengeance : and but ill represt,
The mother's fears as to her breast she clasp'd
Her ill-doom'd infant. Soon the suburbs lay
One ample ruin ; ^ whence the stones were borne
Within the town to serve in its defence.

" And now without the walls the desolate space
Appear'd, a rough and melancholy waste,
With uptorn pavements and foundations deep
Of many a ruin'd dwelling. Nor within
Less dreary was the scene ; at evening hour

32

JOAN OF ARC,

BOOK V.

No more the merry viol's note was heard ; '*''

No more tlic aged matron at Jut door

Miunm'd cheery to her spinning-wheel, and saw

Her children dancing to the roundelay.

The chieftains strengthening still the ancient walls,

Survey tiiein every where with prying eye ;

The eager youth, in anxious preparation,

Practise the arts of war ; silent and stern,

With the hurrying restlessness of fear, they urge

Their gloomy labors. In the city dwelt

An utter silence of all pleasant sounds ;

But all day long the armorer's beat was heard,

And all night long it echoed.

" Soon the foe
Led to our walls the siege : as on they move
The clarions clangor, and the cheerful fife.
Accordant to the thundering drum's deep sound,
Direct their measured march. Before the ranks
Salisbury was seen, Salisbury, so long the scourge
Of France; and Talbot towered by his side,
Talbot, at whose dread name the froward child
Clings mute and trembling to his nurse's breast.
Suffolk was there, and Hungcrford, and Scales,
And Fastolffe, victor in the frequent fight.
Dark as the autumnal storm they roU'd along,
A countless host ! From the high tower I mark'd
The dreadful scene ; I saw the iron gleam
Of javelins sparkling to the noontide sun.
Their banners tossing to the troubled gale,
And — fearful music — heard upon the wind
The modulated step of multitudes.

" There in the midst, shuddering with fear, I saw
The dreadful stores of death ; tremendous roll'd
Over rough roads the harsh wheels ; the brazen tubes
Flash'd in tlie sun their fearful splendor far.
And, last, the loaded wagons creak'd along.

" Nor were our chieftains, whilst their care pro-
cured
Human defence, neglectful to implore
That heavenly aid, deprived of which the strength
Of man is weakness. Bearing through our streets
The precious relics of the holy dead.
The monks and nuns pour'd many an earnest

prayer,
Devoutly join'd by all. Saint Aignan's shrine
Was throng'd by supplicants, the general voice
Call'd on Saint Aignan's name'"' again to save
His people, as of yore, before he past
Into the fulness of eternal rest ;
When by the Spirit to the lingering camp
Of iEtius borne, he brought the timely aid.
And Attila, with all his multitudes,
Far off retreated to their field of shame."

And now Dunois — for he had seen tlie camp
Well-order'd — cnter'd. " One night more in peace
England shall rest," he cried, " ere yet the storm
Burst on her guilty head ! then their proud vaunts
Forgotten, or remember'd to their shame.
Vainly her chiefs shall curse the hour when first
They pitch'd their tents round Orleans."

" Of that siege,"
The Maid of Arc replied, " gladly I hear

The detail. Isabel, proceed ! for soon
Destined to rescue this devoted town,
The tale of all the ills she hath endured
1 listen, sorrowing for the past, and feel
Joy and contentment in the merciful task
For which 1 am sent forth."

Thus spake the maid.
And Isabel pursued. " And now more near
The hostile host advancing pitch their tents.
Unnumber'd streamers wave, and clamorous shouts.
Anticipating conquest, rend the air
Witli universal uproar. From their camp
A herald came ; his garb emblazon'd o'er
With leopards and the lilies of our realm —
Foul shame to France ! The summons of the foe
He brought."

The Bastard interrupting cried,
" I was with Gaucour and the assembled chiefs,
When by his office privileged and proud
That herald spake, as certain of success
As he had made a league with Victory.
' Nobles of France rebellious ! from tlie chief
Of yon victorious host, the mighty Earl
Of Salisbury, now there in place of him
Your Regent John of Bedford : in his name
I come, and in our sovereign Lord the King's,
Henry. Ye know full well our master's claim,
Incontrovertible to this good realm.
By right descent, and solemnly confirm'd
By your great monarch and our mighty king
Fifth Henry, in the treaty ratified
At Troyes,^' wherein your monarch did disclaim
All future right and title to this crown.
His own exempted, for his son and heirs
Down to the end of time. This sign'd and seal'd
At the holy altar, and by nuptial knot
Of Henry and your princess, gives the realm,
Charles dead and Henry, to his infant son
Henry of Windsor. Who then dares oppose
My master's title, in the face of God,
Of wilful perjury, most atrocious crime.
Stands guilty, and of flat rebellion 'gainst
The Lord's anointed. He, at Paris crown'd
With loud acclaim of duteous mtiltitudes.
Thus speaks by me. Deliver up your town
To Salisbury, and yield yourselves and arms,
So shall your lives be safe : and such his grace,
If of your free accord to him you pay
Due homage as your sovereign Lord and King,
Your rich estates, your houses sliall be safe,
And you in favor stand, as is the Duke,
Philip" of Burgundy. But — mark me well !
If, obstinately wilful, you persist
To scorn his proffer'd mercy, not one stone
Upon another of this wretched town
Shall then be left ; and when the English host
Triumphant in the dust have trod the towers
Of Orleans, who survive the dreadful war
Shall die like traitors by the hangman's hand.
Ye men of France, remember Caen and Roan ! '

" He ceased : nor Gaucour for amoment paused
To form reply.

" ' Herald ! to all thy vaunts
Of English sovereignty let this suffice

BOOK V.

JOAN OF ARC.

33

For answer : France will only own as King
Her own legitimate Lord. On Charles's brow,
Traiisnillleii tliroiiirli a louir and good descent,
The croun remains. We know no homage due
To English robbers, and disclaim the peace
Inglorious made at Troyes by factious men
Hostile to France. Thy master's proti'er'd grace
Meets the contempt it merits. Herald, yes,
Be sure we shall remember Caen and Roan '
Go tell the miirhty Earl of Salisbury,
That as like Blanchard, Gaucour dares his power,
Like Blanchard, he can brave his cruelty,
And triumph by enduring. Speak 1 well,
Ye men of Orleans .' '

'■ iSever did 1 hear
A shout so universal as ensued
Of approbation. The assembled host
As with one voice pour'd forth their loyalty.
And struck their sounding shields ; and walls and

towers
Echoed the loud uproar. The herald went.
The work of war began."

"A fearful scene,"
Cried Isabel. " The iron storm of death
Clash'd in the sky ; the mighty engines hurl'd
Huge stones, which shook the ground where'er

they fell.
Then was there heard at once the clang of arms,
The thundering cannons, and the soldier's shout.
The female's shriek, the aflfrighted infant's cry,
The groan of death, — discord of dreadful sounds
That jarr'd the soul.

" Nor while the encircling foe
Leaguer'd the walls of Orleans, idly slept
Our friends : for winning down the Loire its way
The frequent vessel with provision fraught.
And men, and all the artillery of death,
Cheer'd us with welcome succor. At the bridge
These safely landed mock'd the foeman's force.
This to prevent, Salisbury, their watchful chief,''-
A mighty work prepares. Around our walls,
Encircling walls he builds, surrounding thus
The city. Firm'd with massicst buttresses,
At equal distance, sixty forts protect
The English lines. But chief where in the town
The six great avenues meet in the midst,**
Six castles there he rear'd impregnable,
With deep-dug moats and bridges drawn aloft,
Where over the strong gate suspended hung
The dread portcullis. Thence the gunner's eye
From his safe shelter could with ease survey
Intended sally, or approaching aid.
And point destruction.

" It were long to tell.
And tedious, how in many a bold assault
The men of Orleans sallied on their foes ;
How after difficult fight the enemy
Possess'd tlieTournelles,^' and the embattled tower
That shadows from the bridge the subject Loire ;
Though numbering now three thousand daring

men,
Frequent and fierce the garrison ropell'd
Their far outnumbering foes. From every aid
Included, they in Orleans groan'd beneath
All ills accumulate. The shatter'd roofs
5

AUow'd the dews of night free passage there ;
And ever and anon the ponderous stone.
Ruining where'er it fell, with hideous crash
Came like an earthquake,"' startling from his sleep
The affrighted soldier. From the brazen slings
The wild-fire balls hiss'd through the midnight

sky;»«
And often their huge engines cast among us
The dead and loathsome cattle of their camp.
As though our enemies, to their deadly league
Forcing the common air, would make us breathe
Poisonous pollution.^' Through the streets were

seen
The frequent fire, and heaps of dead, in haste
Piled up and streaming to infected Heaven.
For ever the incessant storm of death
Pours down, and crowded fn unwholesome vaults*
The wretched females hide, not idle there,
Wasting the hours in tears, but all employ 'd,
Or to provide the hungry soldier's meal.
Or tear their garments to bind up his wounds :
A sad equality of wretchedness I

" Now came the worst of ills, for Famine came :
The provident hand deals out its scanty dole,
Yielding so little a supply to life
As but protracted death. The loathliest food
Hunted with eager eye and dainty deem'd,
The dog is slain, that at his master's feet
Howling with hunger lay ; with jealous fear.
Hating a rival's look, the husband hides
His miserable meal ; the famish'd babe
Clings closely to his dying mother's breast;
And — horrible to tell ! — where, thrown aside,
There lay unburied in the open streets
Huge heaps of carcasses, the soldier stands
Eager to mark the carrion crow for food.^

" O peaceful scenes of childhood ! pleasant
fields I
Haunts of mine infancy, where I have stray'd
Tracing the brook along its winding way.
Or pluck'd the primrose, or with giddy speed
Chased the gay butterfly from flower to flower !

0 days in vain remember'd ! how my soul.
Sick with calamity, and the sore ills

Of hunger, dwelt on you and on my home !
Thinking of you amid the waste of war,

1 could in bitterness have cursed the great
Who made me what I was, a helpless one,
Orphan'd, and wanting bread ! "

" And be they curst ! "
Conrade exclaim'd, his dark eye flashing rage ;
" And be they curst ! O groves and woodland

shades,
How blest indeed were you, if the iron rod
Should one day from Oppression's hand be wrench'd
By everlasting Justice ! Come that hour,
When in the Sun the Angel of the Lord"*
Shall stand and cry to all the fowls of Heaven,
' Gather ye to the supper of your God,
That ye may eat the flesh of mighty men.
Of captains, and of kings 1 ' Then shall be peace."

"And now lest all should perish," she pursued,

34

JOAN OF ARC.

BOOK VI.

The women and the infirm must from the town
Go forth and seek their fate.

" I will not now
Recall the moment, when on niy poor Francis
With a long look I hung. At dead of night,
Made mute by fear, we mount the secret bark,
And glide adown the stream with silent oars :
Thus thrown U])on the mercy of mankind,
I wandered reckless where, till wearied out,
And cold at heart, I laid me down to die ;
So by tiiis warrior found. Plim I had known
And loved, for all loved Conrade who had known

him ;
Nor did 1 feel so pressing the hard hand
Of want in Orleans, ere he parted thence
On perilous envoy. For of his small fare — "

" Of this enough," said Conrade. " Holy Maid !
One duty yet awaits me to perform.
Orleans her envoy sent me, to demand
Aid from her idle sovereign. Willingly
Did I achieve the hazardous enterprise.
For rumor had already made me fear
The ill that hath fallen on me. It remains,
Ere I do banish me from human kind,
That 1 reiinter Orleans, and announce
Thy march. 'Tis night, and hark ! how dead a

silence '
Fit hour to tread so perilous a path ! "

So saying, Conrade from the tent went forth.

THE SIXTH BOOK.

The night was calm, and many a moving cloud
Shadow'd the moon. Along the forest glade
With swift foot Conrade past, and now had reach'd
The plain, where whilome by the pleasant Loire,
Cheer'd with the song, the rustics had beheld
The day go down upon their merriment :
No song of peace now echoed on its banks.
There tents were pitch'd, and there the sentinel,
Slow pacing on his sullen rounds, beheld
The frequent corse roll down the tainted stream.
Conrade with wider sweep pursued his way.
Shunning the camp, now hush'd in sleep and still.
And now no sound was heard save of the Loire,
Murmuring along. The noise of coming feet
Alarm'd him ; nearer drew the rapid steps
As of pursuit ; anon — the clash of arms !
That instant breaking through a rifted cloud
The moonlight show'd, where two with force

combined
Trest on a single foe, who, warding still
Their swords, retreated in unequal fight.
As he would make the city. Hastening
With timely help to save him, Conrade sped.
One with an unexpected stroke he slew ;
The other fled : " Now let us speed our best,
Frenchman ! " he cried. On to the Loire they ran.
And making way with practised arms across,
Ere long in safety gain'd the opposite shore.

" Whence art thou?" cried the warrior; "and
on what
Commission'd .' "

" Is it not the voice of Conrade .' '
Francis replied ; " and dost thou bring to us
Tidings of succor .' oh ! that it had come
A few hours earlier ! Isabel is gone I "

" Nay, she is safe," cried Conrade ; " her I found
Bewilder'd in the forest, and consign'd her
To the protection of the holy Maid,
Whom Heaven hatli sent to rescue us. Now say
Wherefore alone .' A fugitive from Orleans,
Or sent on dangerous service from the town ? "

" There is no food in Orleans," he replied,
" Scarce a meal more. The assembled chiefs

resolve.
If tliou shouldst bring no tidings of near aid.
To cut their way to safety, or by death
Prevent the pang of famine."" One they sought.
Who, venturing to the English lines, should spy
Where best to venture on this desperate chance,
And I, believing all I loved was lost,
Offer'd myself"

So saying, they approach'd
The gate. The sentinel, soon as he heard
Thitherward footsteps, with uplifted lance
Challenged the darkling travellers. At their voice
He drew the strong bolts back, and cautiously
Open'd the wicket. To the careful chiefs
Who sate in midnight council, they were led,
And Conrade thus address'd them :

" Sirs, the Lord,
In this our utmost need, hath sent us aid.
A holy Maid hath been raised up by Heaven ;
Her mission is by miracles confirm'd.
And hither, with twelve hundred chosen men.
Led by Dunois, she comes. I am myself
A witness to the truth of what I tell ;
And by to-morrow's noon, before these walls
Her banner will be seen."

Thereat the chiefs
Were fiU'd with wonder and with joy, by doubt
Little repress'd. " Open the granaries ! "
Xaintrailles exclaim'd ; " give we to all the host
With hand unsparing now a plenteous meal ;
To-morrow we are safe I for Heaven all-just
Hath seen our sufferings and decreed their end.
Let the glad tidings echo through the town !
God is with us ! "

" Be not too confident,"
Graville replied, " in this miraculous aid.
Some frantic woman this, who gives belief
To idle dreams, and with her madness then
Infects the simple ! That Dunois is there.
Leading in arms twelve hundred chosen men.
Affords a better hope ; yet lavish not
Our stores, lest in the enterprise he fail.
And Orleans then be fain to bear the yoke
Of England!"

" Chief! I tell thee," Conrade cried,
" I did myself behold the sepulchre.
Fulfilling what she spake, give up those arms
Which surely for no common end the grave

BOOK VI.

JOAN OF ARC,

35

Through many an age hath held inviolate.
She is tlic I'rophctess of the Most High,
And will deliver Orleans I "

Gaucour then,
" Be it as tliou hast said. For I must tliink,
That surely to no vulgar talc tliesc chiefs
Would yield a light belief; and our poor stores
Must speedily, ye know, be clean consumed.
Spread then the joyl'ul tidings through tlie troops
That God hath to deliver the oppress'd,
As in old time, raised up a Prophetess,
And the belief itself will make them fight
With irresistible courage."

Thus the chief.
And what he said seem'd good. The men of Orleans,
Long by tlicir foemcn bay'd, such transport felt.
As when the Mexicans,'"'- with eager eye
Gazing to Huixaclitla's distant top.
On that last night, doubtful if ever morn
Again shall cheer thein, mark the mystic fire
Flame on the breast of some brave prisoner,
A dreadful altar. As they see the blaze
Beaming on Iztapalapan's near towers.
Or on Tezcuco's calmy lake flash'd far.
Songs of thanksgiving and the shout of joy
Wake the loud echo ; the glad husband tears
The mantling aloe from his consort's face.
And children, now deliver'd from the dread
Of everlasting darkness, look abroad.
Hail the good omen, and expect the sun
Uninjur'd still to run his flaming race.

While thus in Orleans hope had banished sleep,
The Maiden's host perform'd their evening prayer,
And in the forest took their rest secure.
And now the morning came. At earliest dawn
Lightly upstarting-, and bcdight in arms,
The Bastard moved along, with provident eye
Marshalling the troops. All high in hope they

march ;
And now the sun shot from the southern sky
His noontide radiance, when afar they hear
The hum of men, and see the distant towers
Of Orleans, and the bulwarks of the foe,
And many a streamer wantoning in air.
These as they saw and thought of all the ills
Their brethren had endured, closely pent there
For many a month, such ardor for the fight
Burnt in each bosom, as young Ali felt
Then when Mohammed of the assembled tribe
Ask'd who would be his Vizir. Fierce in faith,
Forth from the race of Hashem stept the youth,
" Prophet of God ! lo — I will be tlie man ! "
And well did Ali merit that high post,
Victorious upon Beder's fertile vale.
And on mount Ohud, and before tlie walls
Of Chaibar, when down-cleaving to the chest
His giant foe, he grasp'd the massy gate.
Shook with strong arm and tore it from the fort,
And lifted it in air, portentous shield !

"Behold tlie towers of Orleans," cried Dunois,
" Lo ! this the vale where on the banks of Loire,
Of yore, at close of day the rustic band
Danced to the roundelay. In younger years

As oft I glided down the silver stream,
Frequent upon the lifted oar I paused.
Listening the sound of far-off merriment.
There wave tlie hostile banners ! martial Maid,
Give thou tiie signal ! — let us fall upon
These merciless invaders, who have sack'd
Village and town, and made the handet haunts
Silent, or hearing but the widow's groan.
Give but the signal, Maiden ! "

Her dark eye
Fix'd sadly on the foe, the holy Maid
Answer'd liim ; " Ere the avenging sword be drawn,
And slaughter be let loose, befits us send
Some peaceful messenger, who shall iriake known
The will of Heaven : so timely warn'd, our foes
Haply may yet repent, and quit in peace
Besieged Orleans, for I fain would spare
The bloody price of victory."

So she said ;
And as she spake, a soldier from the ranks
Came forward. " I will be thy messenger,

0 Proplietess I and to the English camp
Will bear thy bidding."

" Go," the Virgin cried;
" Say to the Lord of Salisbury, and the chiefs
Of England, Suffolk, Fastolfte, Talbot, Scales,
Invaders of the country, say, thus says
The Maid of Orleans : ' With your troops retire
In peace. Of every captured town the keys
Restore to Charles ; so bloodless you may seek
Your native island ; for the God of Hosts
Thus hath decreed. To Charles the rightful heir.
By long descent and by the willing choice
Of duteous subjects, hath the Lord assign'd
The kingdom. In His name the Virgin comes
Arm'd with the sword, yet not of mercy void.
Depart in peace : for ere the morrow dawns,
Victorious upon yonder wall shall wave
Her holy banner.' " To the English camp
Fearless the herald went.

At mid-day meal,
With all the dissonance of boisterous mirth,
The British chiefs caroused and quafTd the bowl.
When by the sentinel conducted there
The Maiden's herald came.

'■ Chiefs," he began,
" Salisbury, and ye the representatives
Of the English King, usurper of this realm,
To ye the leaders of the English host

1 come, no welcome messenger. Thus saith
The Maid of Orleans : 'With your troops retire
In peace. Of every captured town the keys
Restore to Charles ; so bloodless you may seek
Your native island; for the God of Hosts

Thus hath decreed. To Charles the rightful heir,
By long descent and by the willing choice
Of duteous subjects, hath the Lord assign'd
The kingdom. In His name the Virgin comes,
Arm'd with the sword, yet not of mercy void.
Depart in peace : for ere the morrow dawns,
Victorious upon j'onder wall shall wave
Her holy banner.' "

Wonder made a pause ;
Tothisalaugii succeeds. " What ! " FastolfFe cried,
" A virgin warrior hath vour monarch sent

3(3

JOAN OF ARC.

BOOK VI.

To save devoted Orleans ? By the rood,
1 thank Ills grace. If she be young and fair,
No worthless prize, my lords ! Go, tell your Maid,
Joyful wo wait her coming."

There was one
Among the English chiefs who had grown old
In arms, yet had not age unnerved his limbs,
But from the flexile nimbleness of youth
To unyielding stiffness braced them. One who saw
Him seated at the board, might well have deem'd
That Talbot with his whole collected might
Wielded the sword in war, for on his neck
The veins were full,'"-' and every muscle bore
Th(! character of strength. He his stern eye
Fix'd on the herald, and before he spake
His silence threaten'd.'"*

" Get thee gone ! " exclaim'd
The indignant chief: "away ! nor think to scare
With girlish phantasies the English host
That scorns your bravest warriors. Hie thee thence,
And tell this girl she may expect to meet
The mockery of the camp ! "

" Nay, scare her not,"
Replied their chief: " go, tell this Maid of Orleans,
That Salisbury longs to meet her in the fight.
Nor let her fear that cords or iron chains
Shall gall her tender limbs ; for 1 myself

Will be her prison, and "

" Contemptuous man !
No more I " the herald cried, as to his cheek
Rush'd the red anger : " bearing words of peace
And timely warning came 1 to your camp ;
And here have been with insolent ribaldry
Received. Bear witness, chieftains ! that the

French,
Free from blood-guiltiness, shall meet the war."

" And who art thou ? " cried Suffolk, and his eye
Grew fierce and wrath-inflamed : " What fool art

thou,
Who at this woman's bidding comest to brave
The host of England ? Thou shalt have thy meed ! "
Then turning to the sentinel he cried,
" Prepare a stake ! and let the men of Orleans,
And let this woman who believes her name
May privilege her herald, see the fire
Consume him.'°^ Plant a stake 1 for by my God
He shall be kalendared of this new faith
First martyr."

As he spake, a sudden flush
Came o'er the herald's cheek, and his heart beat
With quicker action; but the sudden flush.
Nature's instinctive impulse, faded soon
To such a steady hue as spake the soul
Roused up with all its powers, and unsubdued,
And strengthen'd for endurance. Tlirouo-h the

camp.
Soon as the tidings spread, a shout arose,
A hideous shout, more savage than the howl
Of midnight wolves, around him as they throno-'d,
To gaze upon their victim. He pass'd on ;
/Vnd as they led him to the appointed place
Look'd round, as though forgetful of himself,
And cried aloud, " Oh ! woe it is to think
So many men shall never see the sun

Go down ! Ye Englisli mothers, mourn ye now !
Daughters of England, weep ! for, hard of heart.
Still your mad leaders urge this impious war ;
And for their folly and their wickedness,
Your sons, your husbands, by the sword must fall.
Long-sufft-ring is the Lord, and slow to wrath.
But heavy are his judgments ! "

He who spake
Was young and comely ; had his cheek been pale
With dread, and had his eye look'd fearl'uUy,
Sure he had won compassion ; but the blood
Gave now a livelier meaning to his cheek.
As witli a prophet's look and prophet's voice
He raised his ominous warning : they who heard
Wonder'd, and they who rear'd the stake perform'd
With half-unwilling liands their slacken'd toil,
And doubted what might follow.

Not unseen
Rear'd they the stake, and piled around the wood;
In sight of Orleans and the Maiden's host,'°^
Had Suff"olk's arrogant fierceness bade the work
Of death be done. The Maiden's host beheld ;
At once in eager wrath they raised the loud
And general clamor, " Lead us to the foe ! "
" Not upon us, O God ! " the Maid exclaim'd,
" Not upon us cry out the innocent blood ! "
And bade the signal sound. In the English camp
The clarion and the trumpet's blare was heard ;
In haste they seize their arms, in haste they form.
Some by bold words seeking to hide their fear
Even from themselves, some silently in prayer.
For much their hearts misgave them.

But the rage
Of Suffolk swell'd within him. " Speed your

work ! ' '
Exclaim'd the injurious earl ; " kindle the pile.
That France may see the fire, and in defeat
Feel aggravated shame I ' '

And now they bound
The herald to the stake : he cried aloud.
And fix'd his eye on Sufl"olk, " Let not him
Who girdeth on his harness boast himself
As he that puts it oft'! "" They come; they come !
God and the Maid ! "

The host of France approach'd.
And Suff'olk eagerly beheld the fire
Brought near the pile ; when suddenly a shout
Toward Orleans call'd his eye, and thence he saw
A man-at-arms upon a barded steed
Come thundering on.

As when Chederles comes '"*
To aid the Moslem on his deathless horse,
Swaying the sword with such resistless arm,
Such mightiest force, as he had newly quaff"d
The hidden waters of eternal youth.
Till with the copious draught of life and strength
Inebriate ; such, fo fierce, so terrible,
Came Conrade through the camp. Aright, alefl,
The affrighted foemen scatter from his spear;
Onward he comes, and now the circling throng
Fly from the stake, and now he checks his course.
And cuts the herald's bonds, and bids him live
To arm, and fight, and conquer.

"Haste thee hence
To Orleans," cried the warrior. "Tell the chiefs

BOOK VI.

JOAN OF ARC.

37

riiero is confusion in the English camp.

Bill them come forth." On Conrade's steed the

yotitli
Leapt up, and hastened onward, lie the while
Turu'd to the war.

Like two conflicting cloud.s,
Pregnant with thunder, moved the hostile hosts.
Then man met man, then on the batter'd shield
Rung the loud lance, and through the darken'd sky
Kast It'll the arrowy storm. Amid his foes
The Bastard's arm dealt irresistibly
The strokes of death; and by his side the Maid
Led the fierce fight, the Maid, though all unused
To such rude conflict, now inspired by Heaven,
Flashing her flamy falchion through the troops,
That like the thunderbolt, where'er it fell,
Scatter'd the trembling ranks. The Saracen,
Though arm'd from Cashbin or Damascus, wields
A w^eaker sword ; nor might that magic blade
Compare with this, which Oriana saw
Flame in the ruffian Ardans robber hand,
Wlien, sick and cold as death, she turn'd away
Her dizzy eyes, lest they should see the fall
Of her own Amadis. Nor plated shield.
Nor the strong hauberk, nor the crested casque,
Stay that descending sword. Dreadful she moved
Like as the Angel of the Lord went forth
And smote his army, when the As.'iyrlan king.
Haughty of Hamath and Sepharvaim lallen.
Blasphemed the God of Israel.

Yet the fight
Hung doubtful, where exampling hardiest deeds,
Salisbury struck dou n the foe, and Fastolffe strove,
And in the hottest doings of the war
Towered Talbot. He, remembering the past day
When from his name the affrighted sons of France
Fled trembling, all astonish'd at their force
And wontless valor, rages round the field
Dreadful in anger ; yet in every man
Meeting a foe fearless, and in the faith
Of Heaven's assistance firm.

The clang of arms
Reaches the walls of Orleans. For the war
Prepared, and confident of victory,
Forth speed the troops. Not when afar exhaled
The hungry raven snuffs the steam of blood
That from some carcass-cover' d field of fame
Taints the pure air, flies he more eagerly
To feed upon the slain, than the Orleanites,
Impatient now for many an ill endured
In the long siege, to wreak upon their foes
Due vengeance. Then more fearful grew the fray ;
The swords that late flash'd to the evening sun'"*
Now quench'd in blood their radiance.

O'er the host
Howl'd a deep wind that ominous of storms
RoU'd on the lurid clouds. The blacken'd night
Frown'd, and the thunder from the troubled sky
Roar'd hollow. Javelins clasli'd and bucklers

rang;
Shield prest on shield ; loud on the helmet jarr'd
The ponderous battle-axe ; the frequent groan
Of death commingling with the storm was heard,
And the shrill shriek of fear. Even such a storm
Before the walls of Chartres quell'd the pride

Of the third Edward, when the heavy hail
Smote down his soldiers, and the conqueror heard
God in the tempest, and remembered then
With a remorseful sense of Christian fear
What misery he had caused, and in the name
Of blessed Mary vowed a vow of peace.""

Lo ! where the holy banner waved aloft,
The lambent lightnings play. Irradiate round.
As vv'ith a blaze of glory, o'er the field
It strcam'd miraculous splendor. Then their hearts
Sunk, and the English trembled; with such fear
Possess'd, as when the Canaanites beheld
The sun stand still on Gibeon, at the voice
Of that king-conquering warrior, he who smote
The country of the hills, and of the south,
From Baal-gad to Halak. and their chiefs.
Even as the Lord commanded. Swift they fled
From that portentous banner, and the sword
Of France ; though Talbot witli vain valiancy
Yet urged the war, and stcmm'd alone the tide
Of battle. Even their leaders felt dismay ;
Fastolffe fled first, and Salisbury in the rout
Mingled, and all impatient of defeat.
Borne backward Talbot turns. Then echoed loud
The cry of conquest, deeper grew the storm,
And darkness, hovering o'er on raven wing.
Brooded the field of death.

Nor in the camp
Deem themselves safe the trembling fugitives ;
On to the forts they haste. Bewilder'd there
Amid the moats by fear and the thick gloom
Of more than midnight darkness, plunge the troops,
Crush'd by fast-following numbers, who partake
The death they give. As swol'n with vernal snows
A mountain torrent hurries on its way,
Till at the brink of some abrupt descent
Arrived, with deafening clamor down it falls,
Thus borne along, tumultuously the troops
Driven b}' the force behind them, plunge amid
The liquid death. Then rose the dreadful cries
More dreadful, and the dash of breaking waters
That to the passing lightning as they broke
Open'd their depth.

Nor of the host so late
Exultant in the pride of long success,
A remnant had escaped, had not their chief,
Slow as he moved unwilling from the field,
What most might profit the defeated ranks
Bethought him. He, when he had gain'd the fort
Named from St. John, there kindled up on high
The guiding fire. Not unobserved it rose ;
The watchful guards on Tournelles, and the pile
Of that proud city in remembrance fond
Call'd London, light their beacons. Soon the fires
Flame on the summit of the circling forts,
Which, with their moats and crenellated walls,
Included Orleans. Far across the plain
They cast a lurid splendor ; to the troops
Grateful, as to the way-worn traveller,
Wandering with parch'd feet o'er Arabian sands,
The far-seen cistern ; he for many a league
Travelling the trackless desolate, wliere heaved
With tempest swell the desert billows round,
Pauses, and shudders at his perils past,

38

JOAN OF ARC.

BOOK VII.

Tlien wild with joy speeds on to taste tlie wave
So long bewa'l'd.

Swift as the affriirhted herd
Scud o'er the plain, wlion rattling thunder-cracks
Upon the bolted lightning- follow close,
TJio Enollsh hasten to their shelterino- torts.
Even there of safety doubtful, still apjiall'd
And trembling, as the pilgrim who by night
On his way wilder'd, to the wolf's deep howl
J tears the wood echo, when from close pursuit
Escaped, the topmost branch of some tall tree
He grasps close clinging, still of the wild beast
Fearful, his teeth jar, and the cold sweat stands
Upon his clajuniy limbs.

Nor now the Maid
Greedy of vengeance presses the pursuit.
She bids the trumpet of retreat resound;
A welcome note to the affrighted foe
Ulew that loud blast, whereat obediently
The French, though eager on the invaders' heads
To wreak their wrath, stay the victorious sword.

Loud is the cry of conquest as they turn
To Orleans. There what few to guard the town
Unwilling had remain' d, haste forth to meet
The triumph. Many a blazing torch they held,
Which raised aloft amid the midnight storm
Flash'd far a festive light. The Maid advanced ;
Deep through the sky the hollow thunders

roird;>"
Innocuous lightnings round the hallowed banner
"Wrcath'd their red radiance.

Through the city gate
Then, as the laden convoy pass'd, was heard
The shout of exultation ; and such joy
The men of Orleans at that welcome sight
Possess'd, as when from Bactria late subdued.
The mighty Macedonian led his troops
Amid the Sogdian desert, where no stream
Wastes on the wild its fertilizing waves,
Fearful alike to pause, or to proceed ;
Scorch'd by the sun, that o'er their morning march
Steam'd his hot vapors, heart-subdued and faint;
Such joy as then they felt, when from the heights
Burst the soul-gladdening sound, for thence was

seen
The evening sun silvering the fertile vale.
Where Oxus roll'd below.

Clamors of joy
Echo along the streets of Orleans, wont
Long time to hear the infant's feeble cry,
The mother's frantic shriek, or the dread sou.'.d.
When from the cannon burst its stores of death.
Far flames the fire of joy on ruin'd piles
And high lieap'd carcasses, whence scared away
P\-om his abhorred meal, on clatterinjr wintr
Rose the night-raven slow.

Ill the English forts
Sad was the scene. There all the livelong night
Steal in the straggling fugitives ; as when
Past is the storm, and o'er the azure sky
Serenely shines the sun, with every breeze
The waving branches drop their gather'd rain.
Renewing the remembrance of the storm.

THE SEVENTH BOOK.

Strong were the English forts, '"' by daily toil
Of thousands rear'd on high, when to insure
His meditated conquest Salisbury
Resolved from Orleans to shut out all means
Of human succor. Round the city stretch'd
Their line continuous, massy as the wall
Erst by the fearful Roman on the bounds
Of Caledonia raised, when soul-enslaved
The race degenerate fear'd the car-borne chiefs
Who moved from Morven down.

Broad battlements
Crested the bulwark, and safe standing place
For archer or for man-at-arms was there.
The frequent buttress at just distance rose
Declining from its base, and sixty forts
Seem'd in their strength to render all secure.
But loftier and massier than the rest,
As though of some large castle each the keep,
Stood six square fortresses with turrets flank'd,
Piles of unequall'd strength, though now deem'd

weak
"Gainst puissance more than mortal. Safelj- thence
The skilful bowman, entering with his eye "^
The city, might, himself the while unseen.
Through the long opening aim his winged deaths.
Loire's waves diverted fill'd the deep-dug moat
Circling the whole ; a bulwark vast it was
As that which round their camp and stranded ships
The Achaians raised, a common sepulchre
Of thousands slaughter'd, and the doom'd death-
place
Of many a chief, when Priam's virtuous son
Assail'd them, then in hope, with favoring Jove

But cowering now amid their sheltering forts
Trembled the invading host. Their leader's care
In anxious vigilance prepares to ward
I'he assault expected. Rightly he ared
The Maid's intent, but vamly did he seek
To kindle in their breasts the wonted flame
Of valor, for, by prodigies unmann'd.
They wait the morn. The soldiers' pride waf

gone ;
The blood was on their swords, their bucklers lay
Defiled and unrepair'd,"^ they sharpen'd not
Their blunted spears, the affrighted archer's hand
Relax'd not his bent bow. To them, confused
With fears of unknown danger, the long night
Was dreadful, but more dreadful dawn'd the day

The morning came ; the martial Maid arose ;
Lovely in arms she moved. Around the gate,
Eao-er again for conquest, throng the troops.
High tower'd the Son of Orleans, in his strength
Poising the ponderous spear. His batter'd shield,
Witnessing the fierce fray of yesternight.
Hung on his sinewy arm.

" Maiden of Arc,"
So as he spake approaching, cried the chief,
" Well hast thou proved thy mission, as by words
And miracles attested when dismay'd
The (Trave theoloo-ists dismiss'd their doubts.

BOOK VII.

JOAN OF ARC,

39

So in the field of battle now confirni'd.
You well-fenced forts protect the fugitives,
And seem as in their strength they niock'd our force.
Yet must liiey fall."

" And fall they shall ! " replied
The Maid of Orleans. " Ere the sun he set
The lily on that shattered wall shall wave
Triumphant. — Men of France ! ye have fought

well
On yon blood-recking plain. Y'our humbled foes
Lurk trembling now behind their massy walls.
Wolves that have ravaged the neglected flock !
The Shepherd — the Great Shepherd is arisen !
Y"e fly ! yet shall not ye by flight escape
Ills vengeance. Men of Orleans ! it were vain
By words to waken wrath within your breasts.
Look round ! Your holy buildings and your

homes —
Ruins that choke the way ! your populous town —
One open sepulchre ! who is there here
That does not mourn a friend, a brother slain,
A parent famished, — or his dear, loved wife
Torn from his bosom — outcast — broken-hearted —
Cast on the mercy of mankind .' "

She ceased ;
A cry of indignation from the host
Burst forth, and all impatient for the war
Demand the signal. These Dunois arrays
In four battalions. Xaintrailles, tried in war,
Commands the first; Xaintrailles, who oftentimes
Defeated, oft a prisoner, and as oft
Released for ransom, both with friend and foe
Growing repute of active hardihood.
And martial skill obtained ; so erst from earth
Antajus vaunting in his giant bulk,
When graspt by force Herculean, down he fell
vanquished, anon uprose more fierce for war.

Gaucour the second battle led, true friend
And faithful servant of the imprison'd Duke ;
In counsel provident, in action prompt,
Collected always, always self-controll'd.
He from the soldiers' confidence and love
Prompter obedience gain'd, than ever fear
Forced from the heart reluctant.

The third band
Aleni-on leads. On Verneuil's fatal field
The day when Buchan and the Douglas died,
Wounded and senseless with the loss of blood.
He fell, and tliere being found, was borne away
A prisoner, in the ills of that defeat
Participant, partaking not the shame :
But for his rank and high desert, the King
Had ransomd him, doom'd now to meet the foe
With better fortune.

O'er the last presides
Tiie bastard son of Orleans, great in arms.
His prowess knew the foes, and his fair fame
Acknowledged, since before his stripling arm
Fled Warwick; Warwick, he whose wide renown
Greece knew, and Antioch, and the holy soil
Of Palestine, since there in arms he went
On gallant pilgrimage ; yet by Dunois
Baffied, and yielding him the conqueror's praise.
And by his side the martial Maiden pass'd,

Lovely in arms, as that Arcadian boy
ParthenopoBus,"-' wlion the war of beasts
Disdaining, lie to cope wilii men went fortli,
Bearing the bow and those Dictajan shafts
Diana gave, when she the youth's fair form
Saw, soften'd, and forgave the mother's fault.

Loup's was the nearest fort. Here Gladdis-

dale '•«
Commands the English, who as the enemy
Moved to the assault, from bow and arbalist
Their shafts and quarrels showered. Nor did they

use
Hand-weapons only and hand-engines here,
Nor by the arm alone, or bow-string sped
The missile flew, but driven by the strain'd force
Of the balista,"" in one body spent
Stay 'd not ; through arms and men it made its way,
And leaving death behind, still held its course
By many a death unclogg'd. With rapid march
Onward the assailants came ; and now they reach'd
W'hcre by the bayle's embattled wall "* in arms
The knights of England stood. I'here Poynmgs

shook
His lance, and Gladdisdale his heavy mace.
For the death-blow prepared. Alenc-on here,
And here the Bastard came, and by the Maid,
That daring man who to the English host,
Then insolent of many a conquest gain'd.
Had borne her bidding. A rude coat of mail,
Unhosed, unhooded, as of lowly line,""
He wore, though here, amid the high-born chiefs
Preeminent for prowess. On his head
A black plume shadow'd the rude-featured helm.'*'''
Then was the war of men, when front to front
They rear'd the hostile hand, for low the wall
Where an assailant's upvi'ard-driven spear
Might reach his enemy.

As Alenron moved.
On his crown-crested helm'-' with ponderous blow
Fell Gladdisdale's huge mace. Back he recoil'd
Astounded ; soon recovering, his sharp lance
Thrust on the warrior's shield : there fast infixed,
Nor could Alen(,on the deep-driven spear
Recover, nor the foeman from h\s grasp
Wrench the contended weapon. Fierce again
He lifts the mace, that on the ashen hilt
Fell full ; it shiver'd, and the Frenchman held
A pointless truncheon. Where the Bastard fought,
The spear of Poynings, through his plated mail
Pierced, and against the iron fence beneath'-'
Blunted its point. Again he thrust the spear ;
At once Dunois on his broad buckler met
The unharming stroke, and aim'd with better hap
His javelin. Through his sword-arm did it pierce
Maugre the mail : hot from the streaming wound
He pluck'd the weapon forth, and in his breast
Clean through the hauberk drove.

But there the war
Raged fiercest where the martial Maiden moved
A minister of wrath ; for thither throng'd
The bravest champions of the adverse host.
And on her either side two warriors stood
Protecting her, and aiming at her foes
Watchful their weapons, of themselves the while

40

JOAN OF ARC.

BOOK VII

Little regarding : on the one side he
Who to the English had her bidding borne ;
Firmly he stood, untircd and undisniay'd,
Tliougii many a spear against his burgonet
Was thrust, and on his arm the buckler hung
Heavy, thick-bristled with tlio hostile shafts,
Even like a porcupine, when in his rage
Roused, he collects within him all his force,
Himself a quiver. On the other hand,
Competing witli him to protect the Maid,
Conrade maintain'd the fight ; at all points arm'd,
A jazerent of double mail he wore ;
Its weight in little time had wearied one
Of common strength; but unencumber'd he.
And unfatigued, alertly moved in it,
And wielded with both hands a battle-axe.
Which gave no second stroke ; for where it fell,
Not the strong buckler nor the plated mail
Might save, nor crested casque. On Molyn's head.
As at the Maid he aim'd his javelin.
Forceful it fell, and shiver'd with the blow
The iron helm, and to his brain-pan drove
The fragments. At his fall the enemy.
Stricken with instantaneous fear, gave way.
That instant Conrade, with an active bound.
Sprung on the battlements ; '2-' and tiiere he stood.
Keeping the ascent. The herald and the Maid
Follow'd, and soon the exulting cry of France
Along the lists was heard, as there they saw
Her banner planted. Gladdisdale beheld,
And hastened from his well-defended post,
That where immediate danger more required
There he might take his stand ; against the Maid
He bent his way, and hoped one happy blow
Might end at once the new-raised hopes of France,
And by her death, to the English arms their old
Ascendency restore. Nor did not Joan
Areed his purpose, but with lifted shield
Prepared she stood, and poised her sparkling spear.
The English chief came on ; he raised his mace ;
With circling force the iron weight swung high,'-''
And Gladdisdale with his collected strength
Impell'd the blow. The man of lowly line
That instant rush'd between, and rear'd his shield.
And met the broken stroke, and thrust his lance
Clean through the gorget of the English knight.
A gallant man, of no ignoble line.
Was Gladdisdale. His sires had lived in peace ;
They heap'd the hospitable hearth, they spread
The feast, their vassals loved them, and afar
The traveller told their fame. In peace they died.
And to their ancient burial-place were borne
With book and bell, torches, and funeral chant;
And duly for their souls the neighboring monks
The solemn office sung. Now far away
Their offspring falls, the last of all his race,
Slain in a foreign land, and doom'd to share
A common grave.

Then terror seized the host,
Their chieftain dead. And lo ! where on the wall
Maintain'd of late by Gladdisdale so well,
The Son of Orleans stands, and sways around
His falchion, keeping thus at bay the foe,
Till on the battlements his comrades climb
And raise tJ.e shout of conquest. Then appall'd

The English fled : nor fled they unpursued,
For mingling with the foremost fugitives.
The gallant Conrade rush'd ; and with the throng
The knights of France together o'er the bridge
Press'd forward. Nor the garrison within
Durst let the ponderous portcullis fall.
For in the entrance of tiie fort the fight
Raged fiercely, and together through the gate
The vancjuish'd English and their eager foes
Pass'd in the flying conflict.

Well I deem
And wisely did the heroic Spaniard act
At Vera Cruz, when he his yet sound ships
Dismantling, left no spot where treacherous fear
Might still with wild and wistful eye look back
For knowing no retreat, his desperate troops
In conquest sought their safety ; victors hence
At Tlascala, and o'er the Cholulans,
And by Otompan, on that bloody field
When Mexico her patriot thousands pour'd,
Fierce in vain valor, on their dreadiul foes.
There was a portal in the English fort
Which open'd on the wall ; '^ a speedier path
In the hour of safety, whence the soldier's eye
Might overlook the river's pleasant course.
Fierce in the gate-way raged the deadly war ;
For there the Maiden strove, and Conrade there,
And he of lowly line, bravelier than whom
Fought not in that day's battle. Of success
Desperate, for from above the garrison
(Lest upon friend and enemy alike
The indiscriminating blow should light)
Could give no aid, the English of that way
Bethought them ; by that egress they forsook
St. Loup's, and the Orleanites with shouts of joy
Beheld the Virgin's banner on its height
In triumph planted. Swift along the wall
The English haste to St. John's neighboring fort,
Flying with fearful speed. Nor from pursuit
The victors ceased, but with the fugitives
Mingled and waged the war ; and combatants,
Lock'd in each other's grasp, together fell
Precipitate.

But foremost of the French,
Dealing destruction, Conrade made his way
Along the wall, and to the nearest fort
Came in pursuit ; nor did not then the chief
What most might serve bethink him ; but he took
His stand in the portal, and first looking back,
Lifted his voice aloud ; three times he raised,
Cheering and calling on his countrymen,
That voice o'er all the uproar heard afar.
Then to the strife addrest himself, assail' d
By numerous foes, who clamorously now
Menaced his single person. He the while
Stood firm, not vainly confident, or rash.
But in his vantage more than his own strength
Trusting ; for narrow was the portal way.
To one alone fit passage, from above
Not overbrow'd by jutting parapet,'-^
Whence aught might crush him. He in double mail
Was arm'd ; a massy burgonet, well tried
In many a hard-fought field, helming his head •
And fenced with iron plates, a buckler broad
Hung from his neck. Nor to dislodge the chief

BOUK VII.

JOAN OF ARC.

41

Coulil tlif Kiiolisli briiiirtlieiriuiiiibtTs, for tlio way

Bv upward steps prosouteil from the fort

A narrow asoent, wliere one alone could meet

Tiie war. Yet were they of their numbers proud,

Tliougli useless numbers were in tiiat strait path,

Save by assault unceasing to outlast

A single warrior, who at length must sink

Fatigued with slaughter, and by toil foredone

Succumb.

There was amid tlie garrison
A gallant knight who at Verneuil had fought,
And good renown for feats of arms achieved
Had gain'd in tliat day's victory. For him
His countrymen made way, and he his lance
Thrust upward against Conrade, who perceived
The intent, and, as the weapon touch'd his shield.
Smote with his battle-axe the ashen shaft ;
Then plucking from the shield the severed head.
He threw it back.'*^ With wary bend the foe
Shrunk from the flying death ; yet not in vain
From that strong hand the fato-fraught weapon flew :
Full on the corselet of a meaner man '^
It fell, and pierced him where the heaving lungs,
In vital play distended, to the heart
Roll back their brighten'd tide : from the deep

wound
The red blood gush'd ; prone on the steps he fell,
And in the strong, convulsive grasp of death
Grasp'd his long pike. Of unrecorded name
The soldier died ; and yet he left behind
One who then never said her daily prayers
Of liim forgetful ; who to every tale
Of the distant war lending an eager ear.
Grew pale and trembled. At her cottage door
The wretclied one shall sit, and with fix'd eye
Gaze on the patli, where on his parting steps
Her last look hung. Nor ever shall she know
Her husband dead, but cherishing a hope,
Whose falsehood inwardly she knows too well.
Feel life itself with that false hope decay ;
And wake at night from miserable dreams
Of his return, and weeping o'er her babe,
Too surely think that soon tliat fatherless child
Must of its mother also be bereft.

Dropping his broken spear, the exasperate knight
Drew forth the sword, and up the steps advanced.
Like one who disregarded in his strength
The enemy's vantage, destined to abide
That rashness dearly. Conrade stood prepared.
Held forth his buckler, and his battle-axe
Uplifted. Where the buckler was beneath
Rounded, the falchion struck, a bootless blow
To pierce its plated folds ; more forcefully
Full on his crested helm the battle-axe
Descended, driving in both crest and crown ;
f>om the knight's eyes, at that death-stroke, the

blood
Started ; with blood the chambers of the brain
Were fill'd; his breastplate with convulsive throes
Heaved as he fell. Victorious, he the prize
At many a tournament had borne away
In mimic war ; happy, if so content
With bloodless glory, he had never left
The mansion of his sires.
6

But terrified
The Englisli stood, nor durst adventure now
Near that death-doing foe. Amid their host
Was one who well could from the stubborn yew
Send his sharp shafts ; well skill'd in wood-craft he,
Even as the merry outlaws who their haunts
In Sherwood held, and bade their bugles rouse
The sleeping stag, ere on the web-woven grass
The dew-drops sparkled to the rising sun.
He safe in distance at the warrior aim'd
The feather'd dart ; with force he drew tlie bow ;
Loud on his bracer struck the sounding string,
And swift and strong the well-fledged arrow flew,
it pierced the shield, and reach'd, but reach'd in vain,
Tlie breastplate : while he fitted to the bow
A second arrow, Conrade raised his voice,
Shouting for timely succor to secure
The entrance he had gain'd. Nor was the call
Unheard, nor unobey'd ; responsive shouts
Announced assistance nigh ; the Orloanites
From St. Loup's captured fort along tlie wall
Sped to support him ; cheering was the sound
Of their near footsteps to the chief; he drew
His falchion forth, and down the steps he went.
Then terror seized the Englisli, for their foes
Press'd through the open portal, and the sword
Of Conrade was among them making way.
Not to the Trojans when their ships were lost
More dreadful the R,utilian hero seern'd.
Then hoping well to right himself in arms ;
Nor with more fury through the streets of Paris
Rush'd the fierce king of Sarza, Rodomont,
Clad in his dragon mail.

Like some tall rock,
Around whose billow-beaten foot the waves
Spend their vain force, unshaken Conrade stood,
When, drawing courage from despair, the foe
Renew'd the contest. Through the throng he hew'd
His way unhurt amid the arrowy shower.
Though on his shield and helm the darts fell fast,
As the sear'd leaves that from the tremblimr tree
The autumnal whirlwind shakes. Nor did he pause
Till to the gate he came, and with strong hand
Seized on the massy bolts. These as he drew,
Full on his helm a weighty English sword
Descended ; swift he turn'd to wreak his wrath.
When lo I the assailant gasping on the ground.
Cleft by the Maiden's falchion : she herself
To the foe opposing with her herald's aid.
For they alone, following the adventurous steps
Of Conrade, still kept pace as he advanced.
Shielded him while with eager hand he drew
The bolts : the gate turn'd slow ; forth leapt the chief.
And shiver'd with his battle-axe the chains
That held on high the bridge : down fell the brido-e
Rebounding; the victorious troops rush'd in;
And from their walls the Orloanites with shouts
And tears of joy beheld on Fort St. John
The lilies wave.

" On to Fort London ! on ! "
Cried Conrade ; " Xaintrailles ! while the day

endures
Once more advance to certain victory !
Force ye the lists, and fill the moat, and bring
The battering-ram against their gates and walls

42

JOAN OF ARC,

BOOK VII

Anon I shall be with you. Thus he said ;
Then to the damsel. "Maid of Arc! awhile
Let thou and I withdraw, and by short rest
Renew our strength." So saying he his helm
Unlaced, and in the Loire's near flowmg stream
Cool'd his hot liicc. The Maid her liead unhelm'd,
And stooping to the stream, reflected there
Saw her white plumage stain'd with human blood !
Sliuda.^ring she saw, but soon her steady soul
Collected : on tlie banks she laid her down,
Freely awhile respiring, for her breath
Still panted from the fight : silent they lay,
And gratefully the cooling breezes bathed
Their throbbing temples.

Eve was drawing on :
The sunbeams on the gently-waving stream
Danced sj)arkling. Lost in tlioughtthe warrior lay ;
Then as if wakening from a dream he said,
" Maiden of Arc ! at such an hour as this.
Beneath the o'erarching forest's checker'd shade.
With that lost woman have I wander'd on,
Talking of years of happiness to come !
Oh ! hours forever fled ! delightful hopes
Of the unsuspecting heart ! I do believe
If Agnes on a worthier one had fix'd
Her love, that though ray heart had nurst till death
Its sorrows, I had never on her choice
Cast one upbraiding — but to stoop to him I
A harlot ! — an adulteress ! " ^-^

In his eye
Fierce anger flash'd ; anon of what she was
Ere the contagious vices of tjie court
Polluted her, he thought. " Oh, happy age I "
He cried, " when all the family of man
Freely enjoy'd their goodly heritage,
And only bow'd the knee in prayer to God I
Calm flow'd the unruffled stream of years along.
Till o'er the peaceful rustic's head the hair
Grew gray in full of time. Then he would sit
Beneath the coetaneous oak, while round.
Sons, grandsons, and their offspring join'd to form
The blameless merriment; and learnt of him
What time to yoke the oxen to the plough,
What hollow moanings of the western wind
Foretell the storm, and in what lurid clouds
The embryo lightninglies. Well pleased, he taught,
A heart-smile glowing on his aged cheek.
Mild as the summer sun's decaying light.
Thus quietly the stream of life flow'd on.
Till in the shoreless ocean lost at length.
Around the bed of death his numerous race
Listen'd, in no unprofitable grief.
His last advice, and caught his latest sigli :
And when he died, as he had fallen asleep.
In his own ground, and underneath the tree
Which, planted at his birth, with him had grown.
And flourish'd in its strength when he decay'd,
They delved the narrow house : where oft at eve
Their children's children gathered round to hear
The example of his life and death impress'd.
Maiden I and such the evening of my days
Fondly I hoped ; and would that I had lived
In those old times,'*' or till some better age
Slumber'd unborn ; for this is a hard race.
An evil generation ■ nor by day

Nor in the night have respite from their cares
And wretchedness. But 1 shall be at rest
Soon, in that better world of peace and love
Where evil is not : in that better world,
Joan ! we shall meet, and he too will be there,
Thy Theodore."

Soothed by his words, the Maid
Had listen'd sadly, till at that loved name
She wept. " Nay, Maid ! " he cried, " I did not think
To wake a tear; — yet pleasant is thy grief I
Thou know'st not what it is, around thy heart
To have a false one wreathe in viper folds.
But to the battle ! in the clang of arms.
We win forgetfulness."

Then from the bank
He sprung, and helm'd his head. The Maid arose,
Bidding awhile adieu to gentle thoughts.
On to the fort they speed, whose name recall'd
England's proud capital to the English host,
Now half subdued, anticipating death,
And vainly wishing they from her white cliffs
Had never spread the sail. Cold terror creeps
Through every nerve : already they look round
With haggard eyes, as seeking where to fly.
Though Talbot there presided, with their chief,
The dauntless Salisbury.

'• Soldiers, tried in arms ! "
Thus, hoping to revive with gallant speech
Their courage, Salisbury spake ; " Brave country-
men.
Victorious in so many a hard-fought fight.
What — shrink ye now dismay 'd .' Oh call to mind
The plains of Agincourt, where vanquish'd France
Fled with her thousands from your fathers' arms .'
Have ye forgotten how our English swords, -
On that illustrious day before Verneuil,
Cut down the flower of all their chivalry .'
Then was that noble heart of Douglas pierced,'-"
Bold Buchan bit the earth, and Narbonne died.
And this Alen(;on, boaster as he is.
Cried mercy to his conqueror. Shall I speak
Of our victorious banner on the walls
Of Yenville and Baugenci triumphing;
And of that later hour of victory
When Clermont and the Bastard plied their spurs .'
Shame ! shame ! that beaten boy is here in arms,
And ye will fly before the fugitives, —
Fly from a woman ! from a frantic girl !
Who with her empty mummeries tries to blast
Your courage ; or if miracles she bring,
Aid of the Devil I Who is there among you
False to his country, — to his former fame.
To your old leader who so many a time
Hath led ye on to glory .' "

From the host
There came a heartless shout; then Talbot's cheek
Grew red with indignation. " Earl 1 " said he,
Addressing Salisbury, " there is no hope
From these white-liver'd dastards, and this fort
Will fall an easy conquest. We must out
And gain the Tournelles, better fortified.
Fit to endure a siege : that hope in view,
Cow'd as they are, the men from very fear
May gather what will do for this poor turn
The work of courage."

BOOK VII.

JOAN OF ARC,

43

Bravely thus he spake,
Advising well, and Salisbury replied :
" Rightly thou say'st. But, Talbot, could we reach
The sorceress in the battle, one sure blow
Might give us back, this hour, the mastery
So marvellously lost : nor difiicult
To meet the wench, for from the battlements
I have beheld lier foremost in attack.
Playing right valiantly the soldier's part.
In her the enemy have their strength; with her
Their strength would fall. And had we her butonce
Within arm-stroke, witch though she be, methinks
lier devilry could neither blunt the edge
Of thy good sword, or mine."

Thus communed they.
And through the host the gladdening tidings ran,
Tiiat they should seek the Tournelles. Then their

hearts
Gather'd new strength, placing on those strong

walls
Dependence; oh vain hope ! for neither wall,
Nor moat, nor fort can save, if fear within
Palsy the soldier's arm.

Them issuing forth.
As from the river's banks they pass'd along.
The Maid beheld " Lo ! Conrade ! " she exclaim'd,
" The foe advance to meet us — look ! they lower
The bridge ! and now they rush upon the troops : —
A gallant onset ! Dost thou mark the man
Who all tliis day has by our side endured
The hottest conflict .' Often 1 beheld
His feats with wonder, but his prowess now
Makes all his actions in the former fight
Seem as of no account : knowest thou him .'
There is not one, amid the liost of France,
Of fairer promise."

"He," the chief replied,
" Wretched and prodigal of life, achieves
The exploits of despair ; a gallant youth,
Widow'd like me of hope, and but for whom
I had been seen among mankind no more.
Maiden ! with me thy comrade in the war.
His arm is vow'dto heaven. Lo ! where he stands
Bearing the battle's brunt ! "

Nor paused they now
In further converse, to the perilous fray
Speeding, not unobserved ; for Salisbury saw
And call'd on Talbot. Six, the bravest knights.
And sworn with them, against the Virgin's life
Address'd their course. She by the herald's side
Now urged the war, when on her white-plumed helm
The hostile falchion fell. On high she lifts
That hallowed sword, which in the tomb for her
Age after age, by miracle reserved.
Had lain, which time itself could not corrode,
How then might shield, or breastplate, or close mail
Rotund its edge ? Beneath that edge her foe
Fell ; and the knight who to avenge him came.
Smitten by Conrade's battle-axe, was fell'd
L'pon his dying friend. With Talbot here
The daring herald urged unequal fight;
For, like some oak that in its rooted strength
Defies the storm, the undaunted Earl endured
His quick assault. The herald round him wheels
Rapidlj', now on this side, now on that.

With many a feign'd and many a frustrate aim

Flashing his falcliion ; now, as he perceives

With wary eye the Earl's intended stroke,

Bending, or leaping, lithe of limb, aside.

Then quick and agile in assault again.

Ill-fated man ! one deed of glory more

Shall with the short-lived lightning's splendor

grace
This thy death-day ; for Slait.iitf.r even now
Stands o'er thy loom of life, and lifts his sword.

Upon her shield the martial Maid received
An English warrior's blow, and in his side.
Beneath the arm upraised, in prompt return
Pierced him : that instant Salisbury sped his sword.
Which, glancing from her helm, fell on the folds
That arm'd her neck, and making there its way,
Stain'd with her blood its edge. The herald saw,
And turn'd from Talbot, heedless of himself,
And lifting up his falchion, all his force
Concentred. On the breast of Salisbury
It fell, and cleft his mail, and through the plat<»
Beneath it drove, and in his heart's blood plunged.
Lo ! as he struck, the mighty Talbot came.
And smote his helmet : slant the weapon fell ;
The strings gave v/ay, the helmet dropt, the Earl
Repeated on that head disarm'd his blow :
Too late to interpose the Maiden saw.
And in that miserable moment knew
Her Theodore.

Him Conrade too had seen.
And from a foe whom he had beaten down
Turn'd terrible in vengeance. Front to front
They stood, and each for the death-blow prepared
His ano-ry might. At once their weapons fell.
The Frenchman's battle-axe and the good sword
Of Talbot. He, stunn'd by the weighty blow.
Sunk senseless, by his followers from the field
Convey'd with timely speed : nor had his blade
Fallen vainly on the Frenclunan's crested lielm.
Though weak to wound ; for from his eyes the fire
Sparkled, and back recoiling with the blow,
He in the Maiden's arms astounded fell.

But now their troops, all captainless, confused,
Fear seized the English. Not with more dismay.
When over wild Caft'raria's wooded hills
Echoes the lion's roar, the timid herd
Fly the death-boding sound. The forts they seek,
Now reckless which, so from tliat battle's rage
A present refuge. On their flying ranks
The victors press, and mark their course with blood.

But loud the trumpet of retreat resounds,
For now the westering sun with many a hue
Streak'd the gay clouds.

" Dunois ! " the Maiden cried,
"Form now around yon stronger pile the siege.
There for the night encamping." So she said.
The chiefs to Orleans for their needful lood,
And enginery to batter that huge pile,
Dlsmlss'd a troop, and round the Tournelles led
The host beleaguering. There they pitch their tents,
And plant their engines for the morrow's war,
Then, to their meal, and o'er the cheerful bowl

44

JOAN OF ARC,

BOOK VIII.

Recount the talc of danger ; soon to rest
Betaking them ; for now the night drew on.

THE EIGHTH BOOK.

Now was the noon of night, and all was still,
Save where the sentinel paced on his rounds
Humming a broken song. Along the camp
High flames the frequent fire. The Frenchmen

there,
On the bare earth extended, rest their limbs
Fatigued ; their spears lay by them, and the shield
Pillow'd the helmed head : '^^ secure they slept,
And busy in their dreams they fought again
The fight of yesterday.

But not to Joan,
But not to her, most wretched, came thy aid.
Soother of sorrows. Sleep! no more her pulse,
Amid the battle's tumult throbbing fast,
Allow'd no pause for thought. With clasp'd hands

now
And with fix'd eyes she sat, and in her mind
The spectres of the days departed rose,
A melancholy train ! Upon the gale
The raven's croak was heard ; she started then.
And passing through the camp with hasty step,
She sought the field of blood.

The niglit was calm ;
Nor ever clearer welkin canopied
Chaldea, while the watchful shepherd's eye
Survey 'd the host of heaven, and mark'd them rise
Successive, and successively decay.
Lost in the stream of light, as lesser springs
Amid Euphrates' current. The high wall
Cast a deep shadow, and the Maiden's feet
Stumbled o'er carcasses and broken arms ;
And sometimes did she hear the heavy groan
Of one yet struggling in the pangs of death.
She reach'd the spot where Theodore was slain
Before Fort London's gate ; but vainly there
Sought she the youth, on every clay-cold face
Gazing with such a look as though she fear'd
The thing she sought. '^■^ And much she marvell'd

then.
For there the victim of his vengeful arm.
And close beside where he himself had fallen,
Known by the buckler's blazon'd heraldry,
Salisbury lay dead. So as the Virgin stood
Looking around the plain, she mark'd a man
Pass slowly on, as burden'd. Him to aid
She sped, and soon with unencumber'd speed
O'ertaking, thus bespake him : "Dost thou bear
Some slaughter' d friend.' oris itonewhose wounds
Leave yet a hope of life .' oh ! if he lives,
1 will with earnest prayer petition Heaven
To shed its healing on him ! "

So she said,
And as she spake stretch'd forth her careful hands
To ease the burden. " Warrior ! " he replied,
" Thanks for thy proffer'd aid : but he hath ceased
To suffer, and my strength may well suffice
To bear him himce for burial. Fare thee well !

The night is far advanced ; thou to the camp
Return : it fits not darkling thus to stray."

"Conrade!" the Maid exclaim'd, for well she

knew
His voice : — With that she fell upon his neck
And cried, "My Theodore ! — But wherefore thus
Through the dead midnight dost thou bear his

corse .' "

" Peace, Maiden ! " Conrade cried, "collect thy
soul !
He is but gone before thee to that world
Whither thou soon must follow ! Ycsiermorn,
Ere yet from Orleans to the war we went.
He pour'd his tale of sorrow on mine ear.
' Lo, Conrade, where she moves ! beloved Maid !
Devoted for the realm of France she goes.
Abandoning for this the joys of life,
Yea — life itself! Yet on my heart her words
Vibrate. If she must perish in the war,
I will not live to bear tlie thought that I
Perhaps might have preserved her. I will go
In secret to protect her. If I fall, —
And trust me I have little love of life, —
Do thou in secret bear me from the field.
Lest haply I might meet her wandering eye
A mangled corpse. She must not know my fate.
Do this last act of friendship, and in the stream
Cast me, — she then may think of Theodore
Without a pang.' Maiden. I vow'd with him
To take our place in battle by thy side.
And make thy safety our peculiar care.
And now I hoped thou hadst not seen him fall. "

Saying thus, he laid the body on the ground.
With steady eye the wretched Maiden view'd
That life-left tenement : his batter'd arms
Were with the night-dews damp ; his brown liair

clung
Gore-clotted in the wound, and one loose lock
Play'd o'er his cheek's black paleness."^ " Gallant

youth ! "
She cried, " 1 would to God the hour were come
When I might meet thee in the bowers of bliss 1
No, Theodore I the sport of winds and waves,
Thy body shall not float adown the stream I
Bear him with me to Orleans, there to rest
In holy ground, where priests may say their prayers
And hymn the requiem to his parted soul.
So will not Elinor in bitterness
Lament that no dear friend to her dead child
Paid the last office."

From the earth they lift
Their mournful burden, and along the plain
Pass with slow footsteps to the city gate.
The obedient sentinel, knowing Conrade's voice,
Admits them at that hour, and on they go,
Till in the neighboring abbey's porch arrived
They rest the lifeless load.

Loud rings the bell ,
The awaken'd porter turns the heavy door.
To him the Virgin : " Father, from the slain
On yonder field, a dear-loved friend we bring
Hither for Christian sepulture • chant ye

BOOK VIII.

JOAN OF ARC.

45

Tlie requiem to his soul : to-morrow eve
I will return, and in tiie narrow house
Will see him laid to rest." The father knew
The Prophetess, and humbly bow'd assent.

.Now from the city, o'er the sh.adowy plain,
Backward they bend their way. From silent

thoughts
The Maid awakening cried, "There was a time.
When thinking on my closing hour of life,
Though with a mind resolved, some natural fears
Shook my weak frame ; but now the happy hour.
When this emancipated soul shall burst
Tlie cumbrous fetters of mortality,
1 look for wishfully. Conrade ! my friend,
This wounded heart would feel another pang
Shouldst thou forsake me."

" Joan 1 " the chief replied,
" Along the weary pilgrimage of life
Together will we journey, and beguile
The painful way with hope, — such hope as, fix'd
On heavenly things, brings with it no deceit,
Lays up no food for sorrow, and endures
From disappointment safe."

Thus communing
They reach'd the camp, yet hush'd; there separating,
Each in the post allotted restless waits
The day-break.

Morning came : dim through the shade
The twilight glimmers; soon the brightening

clouds
Imbibe the rays, and o'er the landscape spread
The dewy light. The soldiers from the earth
Arise invigorate, and each his food
Receives, impatient to renew the war.
Dunois his javelin to the Tournelles points —
" Soldiers of France ! behold, your foes are there ! "
As when a band of hunters, round the den
Of some wood-monster, point their spears, elate
In hope of conquest and the future feast.
When on the hospitable board their spoil
Shall smoke, and they, as foaming bowls go round.
Tell to their guests their exploits in the chase.
They with their shouts of exultation make
The forest ring ; so elevate of heart.
With such loud clamors for the fierce assault
The French prepare. Nor, keeping now the lists
Dare the disheartened English man to man
Meet the close conflict. From the barbican,'^
Or from the embattled wall '*^ at random they
Their arrows and their death-fraught enginery
Discharged; meantime the Frenchmen did not

cease
With well-directed shafts their loftier foes
To assail : behind the guardian pavais fenced,'^"
They at the battlements their arrows aim'd,
Showering an iron storm, whilst o'er the bayle,
The bayle now levell'd by victorious France,
The assailants pass'd with all their mangonels ; '■'*
Or tortoises,'-" beneath whose roofing safe.
They, filling the deep moat, might for the towers
Make fit foundation ; or with petraries,
War- wolves, and beugles, and that murderous sling
The matafund, from whence the ponderous stone
Made but one wound of him whom in its way

It met ; no pious hand might then compose
The crush'd and mangled corpse to be conveyed
To where his fathers slept : a dreadful train ''"*
Prepared by Salisbury o'er the town besieged
For hurling ruin ; but that dreadful train
Must hurl its ruin on the invader's head ;
Such retribution rigliteous Heaven decreed.

Nor lie the English trembling, for the fort
Was ably garrison'd. Glacidas, the chief,
A gallant man, sped on from place to place
Cheering the brave ; or if an archer's hand.
Palsied with fear, shot wide his ill-aim'd shaft,
Driving him from the ramparts witli reproach
And shame. lie bore an arbalist himself,
A weapon for its sure destructivencss
Abominated once;"'" wherefore of yore
The assembled fathers of the Christian church
Pronounced the man accursed whose impious hand
Should use the murderous engine. Such decrees
Befitted them, as ministers of peace,
To promulgate, and with a warning voice.
To cry aloud and spare not, ' Woe to them
Whose hands are full of blood ! '

An English king.
The lion-hearted Richard, their decree
First broke, and rightly was he doom'd to fall
By that forbidden weapon ; since that day
Frequent' in fields of battle, and from far
To many a good knight bearing his death wound
From hands unknown. With such an instrument
Arm'd on the ramparts, Glacidas his eye
Cast on the assailing host. A keener glance
Darts not the hawk when from the feather'd tribe
He marks his prey.

A Frenchman for his aim
He chose, who kneeling by the trebuchet.
Charged its long sling with death. '^* Him Glacidas,
Secure behind the battlements, beheld.
And strung his bow ; then bending on one knee.
He in the groove the feather'd quarrel placed,'^^
And levelling with sure eye, his victim mark'd.
The bow-string twang'd, swift on its way the dart
Whizz'd, and it struck, there where the helmet's

clasps
Defend the neck ; a weak protection now.
For through the tube which draw's the breath of life
Pierced the keen shaft ; blood down the unwonted

way
Gush'd to the lungs . prone fell the dying man
Grasping, convulsed, the earth ; a hollow groan
In his throat struggled, and the dews of death
Stood on his livid cheek. The days of youth
He had pass'd peaceful, and had known what joys
Domestic love bestows, the father once
Of two fair children ; in tlie city hemm'd
During the siege, he had beheld their cheeks
Grow pale with famine, and had heard their cries
For bread. His wife, a broken-hearted one.
Sunk to the cold grave's quiet, and her babes
With hunger pined, and follow'd ; he survived,
A miserable man, and heard the shouts
Of joy in Orleans, when the Maid approach'd.
As o'er the corpse of his last little one
He heap'd the unhallowed earth. To him the foe

4G

JOAN OF ARC.

BOOK VIII

Perfonn'd a friendly part, liastcning the hour
Grief else had soon brought on.

The English chief,
Pointing again his arbalist, let loose
The string ; tlie quarrel, by that impact driven,
True to its aim, fled fatal : one it struck
Dragging a tortoise to the moat, and fix'd
Deep in his liver ; blood and mingled gall
Flow'd from the wound, and writhing with keen

pangs,
Headlong he fell. He for the wintry hour
Knew many a merry ballad and quaint tale,
A man in his small circle well beloved.
None better knew with prudent hand to guide
The vine's young tendrils, or at vintage time
To j)ress the full-swollen clusters; he, heart-glad.
Taught his young boys the little all he knew,
Enough for happiness. The English host
Laid waste his fertile fields : he, to the war,
By want compelled, adventured, in his gore
Now weltering.

Nor the Gallic host remit
Their eager efforts ; some, the watery fence,
Beneath the tortoise roofed, with engines apt
Drain painful ; '"'■* part, laden with wood, throw

there
Their buoyant burdens, laboring so to gain
Firm footing : some the mangonels supply,
Or charging with huge stones the murderous

sling,'''^
Or petrary, or in the espringal
Fix tlie brass-winged arrows : ''*^ hoarse around
The uproar and the din of multitudes
Arose. Along the ramparts Gargrave went,
Cheering the English troops ; a bow he bore ;
The quiver rattled as he moved along.
He knew aright to aim his feathered shafts,
Well skilled to pierce the mottled roebuck's side,
O'ertaken in his speed. Him passing on,
A ponderous stone from some huge martinet,''"
Struck : on his breastplate falling, the huge weight
Shattered the bone, and to his mangled lungs
Drove in the fragments. On the gentle brow
Of a fair hill, wood-circled, stood his home,
A stately mansion, far and wide from whence
The sight ranged unimpeded, and surveyed
Streams, hills, and forests, fair variety !
The traveller knew its hospitable towers,
For open were the gates, and blazed for all
The friendly fire. By glory lured, the youth
Went forth ; and he had bathed his falchion's edge
In many a Frenchman's blood; now crush'd beneath
Tlic ponderous fragments' force, his lifeless limbs
Lie quivering.

Lo ! towards the levelled moat,
A moving tower, the men of Orleans wheel '"*
Four stages elevate. Above was hung,
Equalling the walls, a bridge ; in the lower stage
A battering-ram : within a chosen troop
Of archers, through the opening, shot their

shafts.'^
In the loftiest part was Conrade, so prepared
To mount the rampart; for, no hunter he,
He loved to see the dappled foresters
Browze fearless on their lair, with friendly eye,

And happy in beholding happiness,

Not meditating death : the bowman's irt

Therefore he little knew, nor was he wont

To aim the arrow at the distant foe,

But uprear in close conflict, front to front,

His battle-axe, and break the shield and helm,

First in the war of men. There too the Maid

Awaits, impatient on the wall to wield

Her falchion. Onward moves the heavy tower.

Slow o'er the moat and steady, though the foe

Showered there their javelins, aimed their engines

there.
And from the arbalist the fire-tipt dart
Shot burning through the sky .'^'' In vain it flamed
For well with many a reeking hide secured.
Passed on the dreadful pile, and now it reached
The wall. Below, with forceful impulse driven.
The iron headed engine swings its stroke.
Then back recoils ; while they within who guide.
In backward step collecting all their strength,
Anon the massy beam with stronger arm
Drive full and fierce. So rolls the swelling sea
Its curly billows to the unmoved foot
Of some huge promontory, whose broad base
Breaks the rough wave ; the shivered surge rolls

back,
Till, by the coming billow borne, it bursts
Again, and foams with ceaseless violence :
The wanderer, on the sunny clift outstretched,
Harks to the roaring surges, as they rock
His weary senses to forgetfulness.

But nearer danger threats the invaders now,
For on the ramparts, lowered from above
The bridge reclines.'^' A universal shout
Rose from the hostile hosts. The exultant French
Break out in loud rejoicing, whilst the foe
Raise a responsive cry, and call aloud
For speedy succor there, with deafening shout
Cheering their comrades. Not with louder din
The mountain torrent flings precipitate
Its bulk of waters, though amid the fall
Shattered, and dashing silvery from the rock.

Lo I on the bridge forth comes the undaunted man,
Conrade I the gathered foes along the wall
Throng opposite, and on him point their pikes.
Cresting with armed men the battlements.
He undismayed, though on that perilous height,
Stood firm, and hurled his javelin ; the keen point
Pierced through the destined victim, where his arm
Joined the broad breast : a wound which skilful care
Haply had healed ; but, him disabled now
For further service, the unpitying throng
Of his tumultuous comrades from the Weill
Thrust headlong. Nor did Conrade cease to throw
His deadly javelins fast, for well within
The tower was stored with weapons, to his hand
Quickly supplied. Nor did the missioned Maid
Rest idle from the combat ; she, secure.
Aimed the keen quarrel ; taught the crossbow's use
By the willing mind that what it well desires
Gains aptly : nor amid the numerous throng.
Though haply erring from their destined mark.
Sped her sharp arrows frustrate. From the tower

BOOK VIII.

JOAN OF ARC.

47

Ceaseless the bow-strings twang : the knights below,

Eacli by his pavais bulwarked, tlilther aimed

TluMr darts, and not a dart lell woundless tliere ;

So tliickiy llirongod they stood, and fell as fast

As wiien the monarch of the East goes forth

Troni Genina's banks and the proud palaces

Of Delhi, the wild monsters of the wood

Die in the blameless warfare : closed within

The still-contracting circle, their brute force

Wasting in mutual rage, they perish there,

Or by each other's fury lacerate,

The archer's barbed arrow, or the lance

Of some bold youth of his first exploits vain,

Rajah or Oinrah, in the war of beasts

Venturous, and learning thus the love of blood.

Shouts of alarm ring now along the wall.
For now the French tlieir scaling-ladders place.
And bearing high their bucklers, to the assault
Mount fearless : from above the furious troops
Fling down such weapons as inventive care
Or frantic rage supplies : huge stones and beams
Crush the assailants ; some, thrust from the height.
Fall living to their death ; tormented, some,
And writhing wildly as the liquid lead
Consumes their flesh, leap desperately down.
To end their pain by death. Still others mount.
And by their fellows' fate untcrrificd,
Still dare the perilous way. Nor dangerlcss
To the English was the fight, though where they

stood
The vantage-place was theirs ; for them amidst
Fast fled the arrows there ; and brass- wing'd darts.
There driven resistless from the espringal.
Keeping their impulse even in the wound.
Whirl as they pierce the victim.'^'^ Some fall

crush'd
Beneath the ponderous fragment that descends
The heavier from its height : some the long lance.
Whizzing impetuous on its viewless way,
Transfix'd. The cannon ever and anon
With thunder rent the air; conflicting shouts
And war-cries French and English rung around,
And Saints and Devils were invoked in prayers
And execrations, Heaven and Hell adjured.

Conrade, meantime, who stood upon the brido-e,
WMi many a well-aim'd javelin dealing death.
Made way upon the rampart, and advanced
With wary valor o'er his slauffhter'd foes.
Two youths, the boldest of the English host.
Essay 'd to thrust him from that perilous height;
At once they press'd upon him : he, his axe
Dropping, the dagger drew : one through the throat
He pierced, and swinging his broad buckler round,
Struck down his comrade. Even thus unmoved.
Stood Corineus,'^'' the sire of Guendolen,
When, grappling with his monstrous enemy,
lie the brute vastness held alofl, and bore,
.And headlong hurl'd, all shatter'd to the sea,
Down from the rock's high summit, since that day
llim, hugest of the giants, chroniclinf^
Called Langoemagog.

Behold, the Maid
Bounds o'er the bridge, and to the wind displays

Her hallowed banner. At that welcome sight
A general shout of acclamation rose,
And loud, as when the trunipest-tossing forest
Roars to the roaring wind. Then terror seized
The garrison; and fired anew with hope.
The fierce assailants to their prize rush on
Resistless. Vainly do their English foes
Hurl there their beams, and stones, and javelins.
And firebrands ; fearless in the escalade,
The assailants mount, and now upon the wall
Wage equal battle.

Burning at the sight
With indignation, Glacidas beheld
His troops fly scatter'd ; fast on every side
The foe up-rushing eager to their spoil ;
Tlie holy standard waving ; and the Maid
Fierce in pursuit. " Speed but this arrow,

Heaven! "
The chief exclaim'd, "and I shall fall content."'
So saying, he his sharpest quarrel chose,
And fix'd the bow-string, and against the Maid
Levelling, let loose : her arm was raised on high
To smite a fugitive ; he glanced aside.
Shunning her deadly stroke, and thus received
The chieftain's arrow : through his ribs it pass'd,
And cleft that vessel whence the purer blood
Through many a branching channel o'er the frame
Meanders.

" Fool ! " the exasperate knight exclaim'd,
" Would she had slain thee ! thou hast lived too

long."
Again he aim'd his arbalist : the string
Struck forceful : swift the erring arrow sped
Guiltless of blood, for lightly o'er the court
Bounded the warrior Virgin. Glacidas
Levell'd his bow again ; the fated shaft
Fled true, and difficultly through the mail
Pierced to her neck, and tinged its point with blood
"She bleeds! she bleeds!" exulting cried tlie

chief;
" The sorceress bleeds I nor all her hellish arts
Can charm my arrows from their destin'd course."
Ill-fated man ! in vain with eager hand
Placing th}' fcathcr'd quarrel in its groove,
Dream'st thou of Joan subdued ! She from her neck
Plucking the shaft unterrified, exclaim'd,
" This is a favor ! ^■'* Frenchmen, let us on !
Escape they cannot from the liand of God

But Conrade, rolling round his angry eyes,
Beheld the English chieftain as he arm'd
Again the bow : with rapid step he strode >
And Glacidas, perceiving his approach,
At him the quarrel turn'd, which vainly sent.
Fell blunted from his buckler. Conrade came
And lifting high the deadly battle-axe.
Through pouldron and through shoulder deeply

driven
Buried it in his bosom : prone he fell ;
The cold air rush'd upon his heaving heart.
One whose low lineage gave no second name
Was Glacidas,'^* a gallant man ; and still
His memory in the records of the foe
Survives.

And now, dishearten'd at his fall,

48

JOAN OF ARC.

BOOK Vlll

The vanquish'd Englisli fly towards the gate,
Seeking the inner court,'^'' as yet in hope
To abide a second siege, and with their friends
Find present refuge there. Mistaken men I
The vanquish'd have no friends ! defeated thus,
I'ress'd by pursuit, in vain with eager voice
They call their comrades in tlie suppliant tones
Of pity now, now with the bitter curse
Of fruitless anger ; they indeed within
Fast from the ramparts cast upon the French
Beams, stones, and javelins, — but the gate is

barr'd,
The huge portcullis down !

Then terror seized
Their hopeless hearts : some, furious in despair.
Turn on their foes ; fear-palsied some await
The coming death; some drop the useless sword,
And cry for mercy.

Then the Maid of Arc
Took pity on the vanquish'd ; and she call'd
Aloud, and cried unto the host of France,
And bade them cease from slaughter. They obey'd
The delegated Damsel. Some there were
Apart who communed murmuring, and of those
Graville addrcss'd her . " Prophetess ! our troops
Are few in number ; ana to well secure
These many prisoners such a force demands.
As should we spare might shortly make us need
The mercy we bestow ; not mercy then,
Rather to these our soldiers, cruelty.
Justice to them, to France, and to our king,
And that regard vi^isc nature hath in each
Implanted of self-safety, all demand
Their deaths."

" Foul fall such evil policy ! "
The indignant Maid exclaim'd. " I tell thee, chief,
God is with us ! but God shall hide his face
From them, short-sighted they, as hard of heart.
Who, disregarding all that mitigates,
All that ennobles dreadful war, shed blood
Like water ; who, in the deceitful scales
Of worldly wisdom, dare to counterpoise
The right with the expedient, and resolve
Without compunction, as the beam inclines
Held in a faltering or a faithless hand.
These men shall live to see their homes again,
Some to be welcomed there with tears of joy
By those who to the latest hour of life
Will in their grateful prayers remember us.
And when that hour shall come to us, that comes
To all, how gladly should we then exchange
Renown, however splendid, for the thought
That we have saved one victim from the sword, —
If only one, — who begs for us from Heaven
That mercy which to others we have shown ! "

Turning to Conrade, then she said, " Do thou
Appoint an escort for the prisoners.
Thou need'st not be reminded they are men,
Rather by fortune, or by fate, than choice.
Brought hither from their homes to work our bale.
And for their own not less ; but yielded thus
Whom we must neither treat as enemies
Nor trust as friends, but in safe-keeping hold,
Both for their own security and ours."

She said : when Conrade cast his eyes around,
And saw from man to man where Francis ran,
Bidding them sjjare the vanquish'd; him he hail'd.
" Tlie Maid liatii bade me choose a leader i'ortii
To guard the prisoners ; thou shall be the man ;
For thou wilt guard them with due diligence.
Yet not forgetful of humanity."'

Meantime the garrison of that stronghold.
Who, lest the French should enter, had exposed
Their comrades to the sword, sustain'd the siege
In desperate valor. Fast against the walls
The battering-ram was driven ; the mangonels
Plied at the ramparts fast ; the catapults
Drove there their dreadl'ul darts ; the war-wolves

there
Hurl'd their huge stones ; and, through the kindled

sky,
Tlie engines shower'd their sheets of liquid fire.'*''

"Feel ye not, comrades, how the rampart?
shake .' ' '
Exclaim'd a daring Englishman. " Our foes,
In woman-like compassion, have dismiss'd
A powerful escort, weakening thus themselves,
And giving us fair hope, in equal field.
Of better fortune. Sorely here annoy'd.
And slaugliter'd by their engines from afar,
We perish. Vainly may the soldier boast
Undaunted courage and the arm of strensrth,

o to 7

If thus pent up, like some wild beast he falls,
Mark'd for the hunter's arrows. Let us out
And meet them in the battle, man to man,
Either to conquer, or at least to die
A soldier's death."

"Nay, nay — not so," replied
One of less hopeful courage. " Though they point
Their engines here, our archers not in vain
Discharge their quarrels. Let the walls and works
Still be defended ; it will then be time
To meet the.n in the battle man to man,
When these shall fail us."

Scarcely had he said,
When a huge stone, throwii from some petrary
Smote him upon the breast, and with dismay
Fill'd all around ; for as it shattered him.
His blood besprinkled them, and they beheld
His mangled lungs lie quivering.

" Such the fate
Of those who trust them to their walls' defence ! "
Again exclaim'd the soldier: '-Thus they fall,
Be'tray'd by their own fears. Courage alone
Can save us."

Nor to draw them from the fort
Now needed eloquence ; with one accord
They bade him lead the onset. Forth tliey rush'd
Impetuous. With such fury o'er the plain.
Swollen by the autumnal tempest. Vega rolls
His rapid waters, when the gathered storm.
On the black heights of Hatteril bursting, swells
The tide of desolation.

Then the Maid
Spake to the Son of Orleans, " Let our troops
Fall back, so shall the English in pursuit
Leave this strong fortress, thus an easy prey."

BOOK IX.

JOAN OF ARC.

49

Time was not for long counsel. From the court,
Obedient to Dunois, the French retire
As if at the irruption of their foes
Dishearten'd ; tliey, with shouts and loud uproar,
ilaste to their fancied conquest : Joan, the while
I'lacnig a small but gallant garrison.
Bade them secure tlie gates ; then sallying forth,
With such fierce onset charged then) in the rear.
That terror smote the English, and they wish'd
Again that tliey might hide them in their walls
Rashly abandoned, for now wheeling round
Dunois attack'd their flank. All captainless.
lU-marshall'd, ill-directed, in vain rage
They waste tlieir furious efforts, falling fast
Before the Maid's good falcliion and the arm
Of Conrade : loud was heard the mingled sound
Of arms and men ; the soil, that, trampled late
By multitudes, sent up its stifling clouds
Of dust, was miry now with human blood.

On the fort's summit Talbot raark'd the fight,
And calling for his arms impatiently.
Eager to issue forth, was scarce withheld ;
For now, dishearten'd and discomfited,
The troops took flight.

Upon the bridge there stood
A strong-built tower, commanding o'er the Loire.
The traveller sometimes linger'd on his way,
Marking the playful tenants of the stream.
Seen in its shadow, stem the sea-ward tide ;
This had the invaders won in hard assault.
Before the delegate of Heaven came forth
And made them fear who never fear'd till then.
Thither the English troops with hasty steps
Retired, not utterly defeated yet.
But mindful of defence : the garrison
Them thus retreating saw, and open threw
Their guarded gates, and on the Gallic host.
Covering their vanquish'd fellows, pour'd their

shafts.
Check'd in pursuit tliey stop. Then Graville cried,
'■ 111, Maiden, hast thou done ! those valiant troops
Thy womanish pity has dismiss'd, with us
Conjoin'd, might press upon the vanquish'd foe,
Though aided thus, and plant the lilied flag
Victorious on yon tower."

" Dark-minded man ! "
The Maid of Orleans answer'd ; " to act well
Brings with itself an ample recompense.
I have not rear'd the Oriflamme of death — '^^
Now God forbid I The banner of the Lord
Is this, and come what will, me it behoves.
Mindful of Him whose minister I am,
To spare the fallen foe : that gracious God
Sends me a messenger of mercy forth.
Sends me to save this ravaged realm of France,
To England friendly as to all the world.
Only to those an enemy, whose lust
Of sway makes them the enemies of man."

She said, and suddenly threw off" her helm;
Her bosom heaved, — her cheek grew red, — her

eyes
Beam'd with a wilder lustre. " Thou dost deem
That I have illy spared so large a band,
7

Disabling from pursuit our weaken'd troops ; —
God is with us ! " she cried — " God is with us !
Our Champion manifest! "

Even as she spake.
The tower, the bridge, and all its multitudes, •
Sunk with a mighty crash. '^*

Astonishment
Seized on the French ; an universal cry
Of terror burst from them. Crush'd in the fall,
Or by their armor hopelessly weigh'd down,
Or while they plied their unencumber'd arms.
Caught by some sinking wretch, who grasp'd them

fast,
Shrieking they sunk, while frequent fragments huge
Fell in the foaming current. From the fort
Talbot beheld, and gnash'd his teeth, and cursed
The more than mortal Virgin ; whilst the towers
Of Orleans echoed to the loud uproar.
And all who heard trembled, and cross'd theii

breasts.
And as they hasten'd to the city walls,
Told fearfully their beads.

'T was now the hour
When o'er the plain the fading rays of eve
Their sober light effuse ; when the lowing herd.
Slow as they move to shelter, draw behind
Their lengthening shadows; and toward his nest.
As heavily he flaps the dewy air.
The hoarse rook breathes his melancholy note.
" Now then, Dunois, for Orleans ! " cried the Maid
" And give we to the flames these monuments
Of sorrow and disgrace. The ascending flames
Will to the dwellers of yon rescued town
Rise with a joyful splendor, while the foe
Behold and tremble."

As she spaKe, they ran
To burn the forts ; they shower their wild fire there,
And high amid the gloom the ascending flames
Blaze up ; '^^ then joyful of their finish'd toil
The host retire. Hush'd is the field of fight
As the calm'd ocean, when its gentle waves
Heave slow and silent, wafting tranquilly
The shatter'd fragments of some midnight wreck

THE NINTH BOOK.

Far through the shadowy sky the ascending flames
Stream'd their fierce torrents, by the gales of night
Now curl'd, now flashing their long lightnings up
That made the stars seem pale ; less frequent now
Through the red volumes briefer splendors shot.
And blacker waves roll'd o'er the darken'd heaven.
Dismay 'd amid the forts whioh yet rcmain'd
The invaders saw, and clamor 'd for retreat,
Deeming that aided by invisible powers
The Maid went forth to conquer. Not a sound
Moved on the air but fill'd them with vague dread
Of unseen dangers ; if a sudden blast
Arose, through every fibre a deep fear
Crept shivering, and to their expecting minds
Silence itself w;is dreadful.'^' One there was
Who, learning wisdom in the hour of ill,

50

JOAN OF ARC.

BOOK IX.

Exclaim'd, " I marvel not that the Most High
Hath hid his face from England ! Wiierefore thus
Quitting the comforts of domestic life,
Came wo to desolate this goodly land,
Making the drench'd earth rank witli human blood,
Scatter pollution on the winds of Heaven ?
Oh ! that the sepulchre had closed its jaws
On the proud prelate, that blood-guilty man,
Who, trembling for the church's ill-got wealth.
Bade our Fifth Henry claim the crown of France ! *'>^
Oh ! that the grave had swallow'd him, ere he
Stirr'd up the sleeping claim, and sent him forth
To slaughter ! Sure that holy hermit spake
The Almighty's bidding,"*^ who in his career
Of conquest met the King, and bade him oease
The work of death, before the wrath divine
Fell heavy on his head. — Full soon it fell.
And sunk him to the grave ; — and soon that wrath
On us, alike in guilt, alike shall fall ;
For thousands and ten thousands, by the sword
Cut off, and sent before the Eternal Judge,
With all their unrepented crimes upon them.
Cry out for vengeance ; for the widow's groan,
Though here she groan unpitied or unheard,
Is heard in Heaven against us; o'er this land
For hills of human slain, unsepulchred.
Steam pestilence, and cloud the blessed sun !
The wrath of God is on us, — God hath raised
This Prophetess, and goes before her path ; —
Our brethren, vainly valiant, fall beneath them.
Clogging with gore their weapons, or in the flood
Whelm'd like the Egyptian tyrant's impious host,
Mangled and swollen, their blacken'd carcasses
Float on the tainted current ! We remain, —
For yet our rulers will pursue the war, —
We still remain to perish by the sword.
Soon to appear before the throne of God,
Conscious, too late, of folly and of guilt,
Uninjured, unprovoked, who dared to risk
The life His goodness gave us, on the chance
Of war, and in obedience to our chiefs
Durst disobey our God."

Then terror seized
The troops and late repentance ; and they thought
The spirits of the mothers and their babes
Famish'd at Roan sat on the clouds of night,'"^
Circling the forts, to hail with gloomy joy
The hour of vengeance.

Nor the English chiefs
Heard these loud murmurs heedless ; counsellino-
They met despondent. Suffolk, now their chief.
Since Salisbury fell, began.

" It now were vain
Lightly of this our more than mortal foe
To spealc contemptuous. She hath vanquish'd us.
Aided by Hell's leagued powers, nor aught avails
Man unassisted 'gainst Infernal powers
To dare the conflict."'^ Were it best remain
Waiting the doubtful aid of Burgundy,
Doubtful and still delay'd ? or from this place,
Scene of our shame, retreating as we may.
Yet struggle to preserve the guarded towns
Of the Orleannois .' "

He ceased, and with a sigh,
Struggling with pride that heaved his gloomy breast,

Talbot replied, " Our council little boots ;
For by their numbers now made bold in fear '**
The soldiers will not fight; they will not heed
Our vain resolves, heart-wither'd by tlie spells
Of this accursed sorceress. Soon will come
The expected host from England ; even now
Perchance the tall bark scuds across the deep
That bears my son : young Talbot comes, — he

comes
To find his sire disgraced ! But soon mine arm,
By vengeance nerved, and shame of such defeat.
Shall from the crest-fallen courage of yon witch,
Regain its ancient glory. Near the coast
Best is it to retreat, and there expect
The coming succor."

Thus the warrior spake.
Joy ran through all the troops,'*' as though retreat
Were safety. Silently in ordcr'd ranks
They issue forth, favor'd by the thick clouds
Which mantled o'er the moon. With throbbing

hearts
Fearful they speeded on ; some in sad thoughts
Of distant England, and now wise too late.
Cursing in bitterness the evil hour
That led them from her sliores ; some in faint hope
Thinking to see their native land again ;
Talbot went musing on his former fame.
Sullen and stern, and feeding on dark thoughts.
And meditating vengeance.

In the walls
Of Orleans, though her habitants with joy
Humbly acknowledged the high aid of Heaven,
Of many a heavy ill and bitter loss
Mindful, such mingled sentiments they felt
As one from shipwreck saved, the first warm glow
Of transport past, who contemplates himself
Preserved alone, a solitary wretch,
Possess'd of life indeed, but reft of all
That makes man love to live. The chieftains

shared
The social bowl,'"^ glad of the town relieved.
And communing of that miraculous Maid,
Who came the savior of the realm of France,
When, vanquish'd in the frequent field of shame.
Her bravest warriors trembled.

Joan the while
Fasting and silent to the convent pass'd,
Conrade with her, and Isabel ; both mute,
Yet gazing on her oft with anxious eyes.
Looking the consolation that they fear'd
To give a voice to. Now they reach'd the dome :
The glaring torches o'er the house of dcatii
Stream'd a sad splendor. Flowers and funeral herbs
Bedeck'd the bier of Theodore, — the rue,
The dark green rosemary, and the violet,
That pluck'd like him witlier d in its first bloom.
Dissolved in sorrow, Isabel her grief
Pour'd copiously, and Conrade also wept :
Joan only shed no tears ; from her fix'd eye
Intelligence was absent ; and she seem'd.
Though listening to the dirge of death, to hear
And comprehend it not, till in the grave, —
In his last home, — now TJieodore was laid.
And earth to earth upon the coffin thrown ;
Then the Maid started at that mortal sound,

BOOK IX.

JOAN OF ARC.

51

And her lip (juiver'd, and on Isabel,

Trembling- and faint, she leant, and pale as death.

Then in the priest arose an earnest hope,
That, weary of the world and sick witl) woe.
The Maid might dwell with them a virgin vow'd.
"Ah, damsel!" slow he spake, and cross'd his

breast,
" Ah, damsel ! favor'd as thou art of Heaven,
Let not thy soul beneath its sorrow sink
Despondent ; Heaven by sorrow disciplines
The froward heart, and chastens whom it loves.
Therefore, companion of thy way of life,
Shall sorrow wean thee from tliis faithless world,
Wliere happiness provokes the traveller's chase,
And like the midnight meteor of the marsh
Allures his long and perilous pursuit.
Then leaves him dark and comfortless. O Maid !
Fix thou thine eyes upon that heavenly dawn
Beyond tlie night of life ! Thy race is run.
Thou hast deliver'd Orleans : now perfect
Thyself, accomplish all, and be the child
Of God. Amid these sacred haunts the groan
Of woe is never heard ; these hallow'd roofs
Rei-cho only to the pealing quire,
The chanted mass, and virgin's holy hymn,
Celestial sounds ! Secluded here, the soul
Receives a foretaste of her joys to come ;
This is the abode of piety and peace ;
Oil ! be tlieir inmate, Maiden ! Come to rest,
Die to the world, and live espoused to Heaven ! "

Then Conrade answered, " Father ! Heaven has

call'd
This Maid to active duties."

" Active ! " cried
The astonish'd Monk ; " thou dost not know the toils
This holy warfare asks ; thou dost not knov/
How powerful the attacks that Satan makes
By sinful Nature aided ! Dost thou think
It is an easy task from the fond breast
To root affection out ? to burst the cord.s
Which grapple to society tlie heart
Of social man.' to rouse the unwilling spirit,
That, rebel to devotion, faintly pours
The cold lip-worship of the wearying prayer .'
To fear and tremble at Him, yet to love
A God of Terrors.' Maid beloved of Heaven,
Come to this sacred trial ! share with us
The day of penance and the night of prayer!
Humble thyself; feel thine own wortlilossncss,
A reptile worm, before thy birth condemn'd
To all the horrors of thy Maker's wrath.
The lot of fallen mankind ! Oil, hither come I
Humble thyself in ashes. So thy name
Shall live amid the blessed host of saints.
And unborn pilgrims at thy hallowed shrine
Pour forth their pious offerings."

" Hear me, father ! "
Exclaiin'd the awaken'd Maid. " Amid these

tombs,
Cold as their clayey tenants, know, my heart
Must never grow to stone I Chill thou thyself,
And break thy midniglit rest, and tell thy be.ads,
And Labor through thy still repeated prayer ;

Fear thou thy God of Terrors ; spurn the gifts
lie gave, and sepulchre thyself alive I
But far more valued is the vine that bends
Bencatli its swelling clusters, tlian the dark
And joyless ivy, round tlie cloister's wall
Wreathing its barren arms. For me, I know
That 1 have faithfully obey'd my call.
Confiding not in mine own strength, but His
Who sent me forth to suffer and to do
His will ; and in tliat faith I shall appear
Before the just tribunal of that God
Whom grateful love has taught me to adore !'

Severe she spalte, for sorrow in her heart
Had wrought unwonted sternness. From the dome
They pass'd in silence, wlien, with hasty steps,
Sent by the chiefs, a messenger they met,
Who, in alarm, the mission'd Virgin sought,
A bearer of ill tidings.

" Holy Maid ! "
He said, " they ask thy counsel. Burgundy
Comes in the cause of England, and his troops
Scarce three leagues from the walls, afearfnl power,
R-est tented for the night."

" Say to the chiefs.
At morn I will be with them," she replied;
" And to this urgency will give meantime
My nightly thoughts."

So saying, on she went
In thoughtful silence. A brief while she musea,
Brief, but sufficing to excite her soul,
As with a power and impulse not its own.
To some great purpose. " Conrade ! " then she said,
" I pray thee meet me at the eastern gate
With a swift steed prepared, — for I must hence. '

Her voice was calm, and Conrade through the

gloom
Saw not the flush that witness'd on her oheek
Inward emotion at some thought conceived.
She to her quarters hastily repair'd.
There with a light and unplumod casquetcl '^
She helin'd her head ; hung from her neck the

shield,''"
And forth she went. Her Conrade by the gate
Awaited. " May I, Maiden, ask unblamed
Whither this midnight journey .' may I share
The peril ? " cried the warrior. She rejoin'd,
" This, Conrade, must not be. Alone I go.
That impulse of tlie soul which comes from God
Sends me. But thou of this remain assured,
If aught that I must enterprise required
Associate firmness, thou shouldst be the man,
Best, — last, — and only friend ! "

So up she sprung
And left him. He beheld the warden close
The gate, and listcn'd to hor courser's tramp.
Till soon upon his ear the far-off sound
Fell faintly, and was lost.

Swift o'er the vale
Sped the good courser ; eagerly the Maid
Gave the loose rein; and now her speed attain'd
The dark encampment. Tlirough the sleeping

ranks
Onward s;hc past. The trampling of her steed

52

JOAN OF ARC.

BOOK IX

Or mingled witli tlic soldier's busy dreams,
Or with vague terrors fill'd his startled sense,
Prompting a secret prayer.

So on she past
To where in loftier shade arose the tent
Of Burgundy : light leaping from her seat
She enter'd.

On the earth the chieftain slept.
His mantle scarft around him ; near him hung
His helmet and his shield, and at his side
Within hand-reach his sword. Profound he slept,
Nor heard the coming courser's sounding hoof,
Nor entering footstep. "Burgundy!" she cried,
"What, Burgundy ! awake ! " He started up.
And saw the gleam of arms, and to his sword
Reach'd a quick hand. But what he now beheld
TliriU'd him, for full upon her face the lamp
Cast its deep glare, and in her solemn look
Was an unearthly meaning. Pale she was ;
And in her eye a saintly lustre bcam'd.
And that most calm and holiest confidence
That guilt knows never. " Burgundy, thou seest
The Maid of Orleans !"

As she spake, a voice
Exclaim'd, " Die, sorceress ! " and a knight rush'd

in,
Whose name by her illustrated yet lives,
Franquet of Arras. With uplifted arm
Furious he came ; her buckler broke the blow,
And forth she flash'd her sword, and with a stroke
Swift that no eye could ward it, and of strength
No mail might blunt, smote on his neck, his neck
Unfenced, for he in haste aroused had cast
An armet'" on; resistless there she smote,
And to the earth prone fell the headless trunk
Of Franquet.

Then on Burgundy she fi.x'd
Her eye severe. " Go, chief, and thank thy God
That he with lighter judgments visits thee
Than fell on Sisera, or by Judith's hand
He wrought upon the Assyrian! Thank thy God,
That when his vengeance smote the invading sons
Of England, equal though thou wert in guilt.
Thee he has spar'd to work by penitence
And better deeds atonement."

Thus she spake.
Then issued forth, and bounding on her steed
Sped o'er the plain. Dark on the upland bank
The hedge-row trees distinct and colorless
Rose on the gray horizon, and the Loire
Form'd in its winding way islands of light
Amid the shadowy vale, when now she reach'd
The walls of Orleans.

From the eastern clouds
The sun came forth, as to the assembled chiefs
The Maiden pass'd. Her bending thitherwards
The Bastard met. " Now perils threaten us,"
He said, "new toils await us ; Burgundy, — "

"Fear not for Burgundy ! '' tlie Maid replied,
" Hi in will the Lord direct. Our earliest scouts
Shall tellhis homeward inarcli. What of the troops
Of England.?"

" They," the Son of Orleans cried,
" By darkness favor'd, fled ; yet not by flight

Shall these invaders now escape the arm
Of retribution. Even now our troops.
By battle unfatigued, unsatisfied
With conquest, clamor to pursue the foe."

The delegated Damsel thus replied :
" So let them fly, Dunois ! But other work
Than that of battle, now must be perform'd.
We move not in pursuit, till we have paid
The rites of burial to our countrymen,
And hymn'd our gratitude to that All-just
Who gave the victory. Thou, meantime, despatch
Tidings to Chinon : let the King set forth,
That crowning him before assembled France,
In Rheims delivered from the enemy,
I may accomplish all."

So said the Maid,
Then to the gate moved on. The assembled troops
Belield her coming, and they smote their shields,
And with one voice of greeting bless'd her name,
And pray'd her to pursue the flying foe.
She waved her hand, and silently they stood.
Attentive while she spake ; — " Fellows in arms !
We must not speed to joyful victory.
And leave our gallant comrades where they lie.
For dogs, and wolves, and carrion-birds a prey ;
Ere we advance, let us discharge to them
The duty that is due."

So said the Maid ;
And as she spake, the thirst of battles dies
In every breast, such awe and love pervade
The listening troops. They o'er the corse-strewn

plain
Speed to their sad employment: some dig deep
The house of death ; some bear the lifeless load ;
Others the while search carefully around,
If haply they may find surviving yet
Some wounded viretches. As they labor thus.
They mark far off" the iron-blaze of arms ;
See distant standards waving on the air.
And hear the clarion's clang. Then spake the Maid
To Conrade, and she bade him haste to espy
The coming army ; or to meet their march
With friendly greeting, or if foes they came
With such array of battle as short space
Allow'd : the warrior sped across the plain.
And soon beheld the banner 'd lilies wave.

Their chief was Richemont : he when as he heard
What rites employed the Virgin, straightway bade
His troops assist in burial; they, though grieved
At late arrival, and the expected day
Of conquest past, yet give their willing aid :
They dig the general grave, and thither bear
English or French, alike commingled now.
And heap the mound of death.

Amid the plain
There was a little eminence, of old
Raised o'er some honored chieftain's narrow house.
His praise the song had ceased to celebrate.
And many an unknown age had the long grass
Waved o'er that nameless mound, though barren

now
Beneath the frequent tread of multitudes
There elevate, the martial Maiden stood.

BOOK X.

JOAN OF ARC.

53

MiT brow unlu'lm'd, and floatiuif on the wind
Her long, dark locks. The silent troops around
Stood thickly thronsr'd, as o'er the fertile field
JJillows the ripen'd corn. The passing breeze
Bore not a murmur from the numerous host,
Such deep attention held them. She began.

" Glory to those who in their country's cause
Fall in the field of battle ! Countrymen,
I stand not here to mourn these gallant men,
Our comrades, nor, with vain and idle phrase
Of sorrow and compassion, to console
The friends who loved them. They indeed who fall
Beneath oppression's banner, merit well
Our pity ; may the God of Peace and Love
Be merciful to those blood-guilty men
Who came to desolate the realm of France,
To make us bow the knee, and crouch like slaves
Before a foreign master. Give to these,
And to their wives and orphan little ones
That on their distant father vainly cry
For bread, give these your pity ! — Wretched men,
Forced or inveigled from their homes, or driven
By need and hunger to the trade of blood ;
Or, if with free and willing mind they came,
Most wretched, — for before the eternal throne,
Guilty alike in act and will, they stand.
But our dead comrades for their country fought ;
No arts they needed, nor the specious bribes
Of promise, to allure them to this fight,
This holy warfare ! them their parents sent.
And as they raised their streaming eyes to Heaven,
Bade them go forth, and from the ruffian's sword
Save their gray hairs : them their dear wives sent

out,
Fix'd their last kisses on their armed hands, '"'-
And bade them in the battle think they fought
For them and for their children. Thus inflamed,
By every milder feeling, they went forth :
They fought, they conquer'd. To this holy ground
The men of Orleans in the days to come
Shall bring their boys, and tell them of the deeds
Their countrymen achieved, and bid them learn
Like them to love their country, and like them.
Should usurpation pour again its tide
Of desolation, to step forth and stem,
Fearless, the furious torrent. Men of France,
Mourn not for these our comrades ! boldly they
Fought the good fight, and that Eternal One,
Who bade the Angels harbinger his Word
With ' Peace on earth,' rewards them. We survive,
Honorincr their memories to avenge their fall
Upon the unjust invaders. They may drain
Their kingdom's wealth and lavishly expend
Its blood, insanely thinking to subdue
This wide and populous realm ; for easier were it
To move the ancient mountains from their base.
Than on a nation knowing its own strength
To force a foreign yoke. France then is safe.
My glorious mission soon will be fulfill'd,
My work be done. But, oh ! remember ye,
And in their generation let your sons
Transmit to theirs the all-concerning truth.
That a great people, wrongfully assail'd,
If faithful to themselves, and resolute

In duty to the last, betide what may, —
Although no signs be given, no miracles
Vouchsafed, as now, no Prophetess ordain'd,
May yet with hope invincible hold on.
Relying on their courage, and their cause,
And the sure course of righteous Providence."

THE TENTH BOOK.

Thus to the martyrs in their country's cause
The Maiden gave their fame ; and when she ceased,
Such murmur from the multitude arose,
As when at twilight hour the summer breeze
Moves o'er the elmy vale. There was not one
Who mourn'd with feeble sorrow for his friend,
Slain in tlie fight of freedom ; or if chance
Remembrance with a tear suft'used the eye,
The patriot's joy shone through.

And now the rites
Of sepulture perform'd, the hymn to Heaven
They chanted. To the town the Maid return'd,
Dunois with her, and Richemont, and the man
Conrade, whose converse most the Virgin loved.
They of pursuit and of the future war
Sat communing ; when loud the trumpet's voice
Proclaim'd a herald's coming.

"To the Maid," —
Such was his errand, — " and to thee, Dunois,
Son of the chief he loved, Du Chastel sends
Greeting. Tlic aged warrior hath not spared
All active efforts to partake your toil.
And serve his country ; and though late arrived,
He share not in the fame your arms acquire,
His heart is glad that he is late arrived.
And France preserved thus early. He were here
To join your host, and follow the pursuit,
But Richemont is his foe. To tiiat high Lord
Thus says my master : We, though each to each
Be hostile, are alike the embattled sons
Of our dear country. Therefore do thou join
The conquering troops, and prosecute success ;
I will the while assault what guarded towns
Bedford yet holds in Orleannois : one day,
Perhaps the Constable of France may learn
He wrong'd Du Chastel."

As the herald spake,
Richemont's cheek redden'd, partly with a sense
Of shame, and partly anger half supprest.
" Say to thy master," eagerly he said,
" I aju the foe of those court parasites
Who poison the King'sear. Him who shall serve
Our country in the field, 1 hold my friend :
Such may Du Chastel prove."

So said the chief
And pausing as the herald went his way,
Turn'd to the Virgin : " If 1 guess aright,
It is not from a friendly tongue's report,
That thou hast heard of me."

Dissembling not
The unwelcome truth, " Yes, chieflain '. " shf

replied,
" Report bespeaks thee haughty, violent,

54

JOAN OF ARC.

BOOK X.

Suftorino; no rival, hrookinir no control,

And executing hy unrighteous means

The judgments of thine own unlawful will."

" But hear me, Maid of Orleans ! " ho exclaim'd :
" Should the wolf enter thy defenceless flock,
Vv'cre it a crime if t!iy more mighty force
Destroy'd the fell destroyer? If thy hand
Had slain a ruHKtu as he burst thy door
I'repared for midnight murder, sliould'st thou feel
The weight of blood press heavy on thy souP
1 slew Ihc' wolves of stat", the murderers
Of thousands. Joan ! when rusted in its sheath
The sword of justice hung, blamest thou the man
That lent his weapon for the righteous deed ? "

Conrade replied, " Nay, Richeniont, it were well
To slay the ruffian as he burst thy doors;
But if he bear the plunder safely thence,
And thou should'st meet him on the Riture day,
V^engeance must not be thine : there is the law
To punish ; and the law alloweth not,
That th(! accuser take upon himself
The judge's part; still less doth it allow
That he should execute upon the accused
Untried, unheard, a sentence, which so given
Becomes, whate'er the case, itself a crime."

"Thou hast said wisely," cried the Constable ;
" But there are guilty ones above the law.
Men whose black crimes exceed the utmost bound
Of private guilt ; court vermin that buzz round.
And fly-blow the King's ear, and make him waste.
In this most perilous time, his people's wealth
And blood ; immersed one while in sensual sloth.
Heedless though ruin threat the realm they rule ;
And now projecting some mad enterprise,
Sending their troops to sure defeat and shame.
These are the men who make the King suspect
His wisest, faithfulest, best counsellors ;
And for themselves and their dependents, seize
All places, and all profits ; and they wrest
To their own ends the statutes of the land.
Or safely break them ; thus, or indolent,
Or active, ruinous alike to France.
Wisely thou sayest, warrior, that the Law
Should strike the guilty ; but the voice of Justice
Cries out, and brings conviction as it cries,
Whom the laws cannot reach, the dagger should."

The Maid replied, " It secmeth then, O Chief,
That reasoning to thine own conviction thus.
Thou standest self-acquitted of all wrong,
Self-justified, yea, self-approved. I ask not
Whether this public zeal hath look'd askaunt
To private ends ; men easily deceive
Others, and oft more easily themselves.
But what if one reasoning as thou hast done
Had in like course proceeded to the act,
One of the people, one of low degree.
In whom the strong desire of public good
Had grown to be his one sole sleepless thought,
A passion, and a madness; raised as high
Above all sordid motives as thyself;
Beneath such impulses of rivalry

And such ambitious projects, as perforce

Men will impute to thee r had such a man

Stood forth the self-appointed minister

To execute his own decrees of death.

The law on him had rightfully enforced

That sentence, which the Almighty hath enjoin'd

Of life for life. Thou, chief, art by thy rank

And power exempted from the penalty :

What then hast thou exampled, — right and wrong

Confounding thus, and making lawless might

The judge in its own quarrel .' Trust me, chief,

That if a people sorely are oppress'd.

The dreadful hour of overthrow will come

Too surely and too soon ! He best meanwhile

Performs the sage's and the patriot's part.

Who in the ear of rage and faction breathes

The healing words of love."

Thus communed they.
Meantime, all panic-struck and terrified.
The English urge their flight; by other thoughts
Possess'd than when, elate with arrogance.
They dreamt oi'c()n(]ucst,nnd the crown of France
At their disj)osal. Of their hard-fought fields,
Of glory hardly earn'd, and lost with sliame,
Of friends and brethren slaughter'd, and the fate
Threatening themselves, they brooded sadly, now
Repentant late and vainly. They whom fear
Erst made obedient to their conquering march.
Rise on them in defeat, while they retire,
Marking their path with ruin, day by day
Leaving the weak and wounded destitute
To the foe's mercy; thinking of their home,
Though to that far-off" prospect scarcely hops
Could raise a sickly eye. Oh then what joy
Inspired iinew their bosoms, when, like clouds
Moving in shadows down the distant hill.
They saw their coming succors ! In each heart
Doubt raised a busy tumult ; soon they knew
The English standard, and a general shout
Burst from the joyful ranks : yet came no joy
To Talbot : he, with dark and downward brow.
Mused sternly, till at length aroused to hope
Of vengeance, welcoming his gallant son,
He brake a sullen smile. "^

" Son of my age,
Welcome young Talbot to thy first of fields.
Thy father bids thee welcome, though disgraced,
Baffled, and flying from a woman's arm I
Yes, by my former glories, from a woman !
The scourge of France, the conqueror of men,
Flying before a woman ! Son of Talbot,
Had the winds wafted thee a few days sooner,
Thou hadst seen me high in honor, and thy name
Alone had scatter'd armies ; yet, my son,
I bid thee welcome ! here we rest our flight.
And face again the foe."

So spake the chief;
And well he counsell'd : for not yet the sun
Had reach'd meridian height, when o'er the plain
Of Patay, they beheld the troops of France
Speed in pursuit. Soon as the troops of France
Beheld the dark battalions of the foe
Shadowing the distant plain, a general shout
Burst from the expectant host, and on they prest,
Elate of heart and eager for the fight,

BOOK X.

JOAN OF ARC,

55

With clamors ominous of victory.
Thus urging on, one t'rtxii the adverse host
Advanced to meet tiiem -. tliey his garb of peace
Knew, and they halted as tlie herald spake
His bidding to the chieftains. " Sirs !" lie cried,
'• 1 bear detlance to you from tlic Earl
William of Sutiblk. Here on this fit ground,
He wills to give you battle, power to power.
So please you, on the morrow."

" On the morrow
We will join battle then,' replied Dunois,
"And God befriend the right!" Then on the

herald
A robe rich-furr'd and embroidered he bestow'd,"-*
A costly guerdon. Througli the army spread
The unwelcome tidings of delay ; posscss'd
With agitating hopes they felt the liours
Pass heavily ; but soon the night waned on,
And the loud trumpets' blare from broken sleep
Roused them ; a second time tlie thrilling blast
Bade them be arin'd, and at the third long sound
They ranged them in their ranks. '■'^ From maji to

man
With pious haste hurried the confessors
To shrive them,'"^ lest with souls all unprepared
They to their death might go. Dunois meantime
Rode through the host, the shield of dignity '''
Before him borne, and in his hand he held
The white wand of command. The open helm
Disclosed that eye which temper'd the strong lines
Of steady valor, to obedient awe
Winning the will's assent. To some he spake
Of late-earn'd glory ; others, new to war.
He bade bethink them of the feats achieved
When Talbot, recreant to his former fame.
Fled from beleaguer'd Orleans. Was there one
Whom he had known in battle .' by the hand
Him did he take, and bid him on that day
Summon his wonted courage, and once more
Support his chief and comrade. Happy he
Who caught his e}'e, or from the chieftain's lips
Heard his own name ! joy more inspiriting
Fills not the Persian's soul, when sure he deems
That Mitlira hears propitiously his prayer,
And o'er the scattered cloud of morning pours
A brighter ray responsive.

Then the host
Partook due food, tliis tlieir last meal belike
Receiving with such thoughtful doubts as make
The soul, impatient of uncertainty.
Rush eager to the event ; being thus prepared,
Upon the grass the soldiers laid themselves.
Each in his station, waiting there the sound
Of onset, that in undiininish'd strength
Strong, they might meet the battle ; '"' silent some
Pondering the chances of the coining day,
Some wliiling with a careless gaycty
The fearful pause of action.

Thus the French
In such array and high in confident hope
Await the signal ; whilst with other thoughts.
And ominous awe, once more the invadino- liost
Prepare them in the field of fight to meet
The Prophetess. Collected m himself
Appear'd the might of Talbot. Through the ranks

He stalks, reminds them of their former fame.
Their native land, their homes, the friends they

loved,
All the rewards oi' this day's victory.
But awe had fill'd the English, and they struck
Faintly their shields; for they who had beheld
The hallowed banner with celestial light
Irradiate, and the mission'd ftlaiden's deeds,
Felt their hearts sink within them at the thougiit
Of her near vengeance ; and the tale they told
Roused such a tumult in the new-come troops.
As fitted them for fear. The aged Earl
Beheld their drooping valor, and his brow,
Wrinkled with thought, bewray'd his inward

doubts :
Still he was firm, though all might fly, resolved
That Talbot should retrieve his old renown.
And end liis life with glory. Yet some hope
Inspired the veteran, as, across the plain
Casting his eye, he mark'd the embattled strength
Of thousands; archers of unequalled skill,
Brigans and pikcmen, from whose lifted points
A fearful radiance flash'd, and young esquires.
And high-born warriors, bright in blazon'd arms.

Nor few, nor faineless were the English chiefs.
In many a field victorious, he was there.
The garter'd Fastolffe; Huntjerford, and Scales,
Men who had seen the hostile squadrons fly
Before the arms of England; Suffolk there,
The haughty chieftain, tower'd ; blest had he fallen
Ere yet a courtly minion he was mark'd
By public hatred, and the murderer's guilt !
There too the son of Talbot, young in arms.
Heir of a noble race and mighty name :
At many a tilt and tournament had he
Approved his skill and prowess; confident
In strength, and jealous of his future fame,
His heart beat higli for battle. Such array
Of marshall'd numbers fought not on the field
Of Cressy, nor at Poictiers ; nor such force
Led Henry to the fight of Agincourt,
When thousands fell before him.

Onward move
The host of France. It was a goodly sight
To see the embattled pomp, as with the step
Of stateliness the barded steeds came on, —
To see the pennons rolling their long waves
Before the gale, and banners broad and bright '"'
Tossing their blazonry, and high-plumed chiefs,
Vidames, '""^ and Seneschalls, and Chastellains,
Gay with their buckler's gorgeous heraldry,
And silken surcoats to the mid-day sun
Glittering.'*'

And now the knights of France dismount,
For not to brutal strength they deem'd it right
To trust their fame and their dear country's weal ; '^^
Rather to inatily courage, and the glow
Of honorable thoughts, such as inspire
Ennobling energy. Unhorsed, unspurr d,
Their javelins shorten'd to a wieldy length,"^
They to the foe advanced. The Maid alone.
Conspicuous on a coal-black courser, meets
The war. They moved to battle with such sound
As rushes o'er the vaulted firmament,

56

JOAN OF ARC.

BOOK X.

When from his seat, on the utmost verge of heaven
That overhangs the void, tlie Sire of Winds,
HrcBsvelger starting,"*"* rears his giant bulk,
And from his eagle pinions shakes the storm.

High on her stately steed the martial Maid
Rode foremost of the war ; her burnisli'd arms
Shone like the brook that o'er its pebbled course
Runs glittering gayly to the noon- tide sun.
The foaming courser, of her guiding hand
Impatient, smote the earth, and toss'd his mane.
And rear'd aloft with many a froward bound.
Then answered to the rein witli such a step,
As, in submission, he were proud to show
His spirit unsubdued. Slow on the air
Waved the white plumes that shadow'd o'er her

helm.
Even such, so fair, so terrible in arms,
Pelides moved from Scyros, where, conceal'd,
He lay obedient to his mother's fears
A seemly damsel ; thus the youth appear'd
Terribly graceful, when upon his ni-ck
Deidameia hung, and with a look
That spake the tumult of her troubled soul.
Fear, anguish, and upbraiding tenderness,
Gazed on the father of her unborn babe.

An English knight, who, eager for renown.
Late left his peaceful mansion, mark'd the Maid.
Her power miraculous and portentous deeds
He from the troops had heard incredulous.
And scofF'd their easy fears, and vow'd that he.
Proving the magic of this dreaded girl
In equal battle, would dissolve the spell,
Powerless opposed to valor. Fortli he spurr'd
Before the ranks ; she mark'd the coming foej
And fi.x'd her lance in rest, and rush'd along.
Midway they met; full on her buckler driven,
Shiver'd the English spear : her better force
Drove the brave foeman senseless from his seat.
Headlong he fell, nor ever to the sense
Of shame awoke ; for crowding multitudes
Soon crush'd the helpless warrior.

Then the Maid
Rode through the thickest battle; fast they fell.
Pierced by her forceful spear. Amid the troops
Plunged her strong war-horse, by the noise of arms
Elate and roused to rage, he tramples o'er.
Or with the lance protended from his front,"**
Thrusts down the thronging squadrons. Where

she turns.
The foe tremble and die. Such ominous fear
Seizes the traveller o'er the trackless sands.
Who marks the dread Simoom across the waste
Sweep its svi^ift pestilence : to earth he falls.
Nor dares give utterance to the inward prayer.
Deeming the Genius of the desert breathes
The purple blast of death.

Such was the sound
As when a tempest, mingling air and sea,
Flies o'er the uptorn ocean : dashing high
Their foamy heads amid the incumbent clouds.
The madden'd billows witli their deafening roar
Drown the loud thunder's peal. In every form
Of horror, death was there. They fall, transfix'd

By the random arrow's point, or fierce-thrust lance,
Or sink, all battered by the ponderous mace :
Some from their coursers thrown, lie on the earth,
Helpless because of arms, that weak to save.
Lengthened the lingering agonies of death.
But most the English fell, by their own fears
Betray'd, for fear the evil that it dreads
Increaseth. Even the chiefs, who many a day
Had met the war and conquer'd, trembled now,
Appall'd before the Maid miraculous.
As the blood-nurtur'd monarch of the wood.
That o'er the wilds of Afric in his strength
Resistless ranges, when the mutinous clouds
Burst, and the lightnings through the midnightsky
Dart their red fires, lies fearful in his den.
And howls in terror to the passing storm.

But Talbot, fearless where the bravest fear'd,
Mow'd down the hostile ranks. The chieftain stood
Like a strong oak, amid the tempest's rage.
That stands unharm'd, and while the forest falls
Uprooted round, lifts his high head aloft.
And nods majestic to the warring- wind.
He fought, resolved to snatch the shield of death *"^
And shelter him from shame. The very herd
Who fought near Talbot, though the Virgin's name
Made their cheeks pale and drove the curdling

blood
Back to their hearts, caught from his daring deeds
New force, and went like eaglets to the prey
Beneath their mother's wing : to him they look'd.
Their tower of strength,"'' and follow'd where his

sword
Made through the foe a way. Nor did the son
Of Talbot shame his lineage ; by his sire
Emulous he strove, like the young lionet
When first he bathes his murderous jaws in blood.
They fought intrepid, though amid their ranks
Fear and confusion triumph'd ; for such dread
Possess'd the English, as the Etruscans felt,
When self-devoted to the infernal gods
The awful Decius stood before the troops.
Robed in the victim garb of sacrifice,
And spake aloud, and call'd the shadowy powers
To give to Rome the conquest, and receive
Their willing prey ; then rush'd amid the foe.
And died upon the hecatombs he slew.

But hope inspired the assailants. Xaintrailles
there
Spread fear and death, and Orleans' valiant son
Fougiit as when Warwick fled before his arm.
O'er all preeminent for hardiest deeds
Was Conrade. Where he drove his battle-axe.
Weak was the buckler or the helm's defence,
Hauberk, or plated mail ; through all it pierced.
Resistless as the fork'd flash of heaven.
The death-doom'd foe, who mark'd the coming

chief.
Felt such a chill run through his shivering frame,
As the night-traveller of the Pyrenees,
Lone and bewilder'd on his wintry way,
When from the mountains round reverberates
The hungry wolves' deep yell : on every side,
Their fierce eyes gleaming as with meteor fires,

BOOK X.

JOAN OF ARC.

57

T)ie faiiiish'd pack come round ; the affrighted

luulu
Snorts loud wiUi terror, on his shuddering limbs
The big sweat starts, convulsive pant his sides,
Then on he gallops, wild in desperate speed.
Ilim dealing death an English knight beheld,
And spurr'd his steed to crush him ; Conrade

leap'd
Lightly aside, and through the warrior's greaves
Fix'd a deep wound : nor longer could the foe,
Disabled thus, command his mettled horse,
Or his rude plunge endure ; headlong he fell.
And perisii'd. In his castle hall was hung
On high his father's shield, with many a dint
Graced on the glorious field of Agincourt.
His deeds the son had heard ; and when a boy.
Listening delighted to the old man's tale,
His little hand would lift the weighty spear
In warlike pastime : he had left behind
An infant offspring, and had fondly deein'd
He too in age the exploits of his youth
Should tell, and in the stripling's bosom rouse
The fire of glory.

Conrade the next foe
Smote where the heaving membrane separates
The chambers of the trunk. The dying man,
In his lord's castle dwelt, for many a year,
A well-beloved servant: he could sing
Carols for Shrove-tide, or for Candlemas,
Songs for the wassail, and when the boar's head,
Crow'n'd with gay garlands and with rosemary.
Smoked on the Christmas board : ^*'' he went to war
Following the lord he loved, and saw him fall
Beneath the arm of Conrade, and expired,
Slain on his master's body.

Nor the fight
Was doubtful long. Fierce on the invading host
Press the French troops impetuous, as of old,
When pouring o'er his legion slaves on Greece,
The eastern despot bridged the Hellespont,
The rushing sea against the mighty pile
RoU'd its full weight of waters; far away
The fearful Satrap mark'd on Asia's coasts
The floating fragments, and with ominous fear
Trembled for the great king.

Still Talbot strove.
His foot firm planted, his uplifted shield
Fencing that breast which never yet had known
The throb of fear. But when the warrior's eye,
Glancing around the fight, beheld the French
Pressing to conquest, and his heartless troops
Striking with feebler force in backward step.
Then o'er his cheek he felt the indignant flush
Of shame, and loud he lifted up his voice,
.And cried, " Fly, cravens ! leave your aged chief
Here in the front to perish ! his old limbs
Are not like yours, so supple in the flight.""
Go tell your countrymen how ye escaped
When Talbot fell ! "

In vain the warrior spake ;
In the uproar of the fight his voice was lost ;
And they, the nearest, who had heard, beheld
The Prophetess approach, and every thought
Was overwhelm'd in terror. But the son
Of Talbot mark'd lier thus across the plain
8

Careering fierce in conquest, and the hope

Of glory rose within him. Her to meet

He spurr'd his horse, by one decisive deed

Or to retrieve the battle, or to fall

With honor. Each beneath the other's blow

Bow'd down ; their lances shiver'd with the shock :

To earth their coursers fell : at once they rose.

He from the saddle-bow his falchion caught '*

Rushing to closer combat, and she bared

The lightning of her sword.'"' In vain the youth

Essay 'd to pierce those arms which even the power

Of time was weak to injure : she the while

Througii many a wound beheld her foeman's

blood
Ooze fast. "Yet save thyself! " the Maiden cried.
" Me thou canst not destroy : be timely wise.
And live ! " He answer'd not, but lifting high
His weapon, smote with fierce and forceful arm
Full on the Virgin's helm : fire from her eyes
Fhish'd with the stroke : one step she back recoil'd,
Then in his breast plunged deep the sword of death.

Talbot beheld his fall ; on the next foe.
With rage and anguish wild, the warrior turn'd:
His ill-directed weapon to the earth
Drove down the unwounded Frank: he strikes

again,
And through his all-in-vain imploring hands
Cleaves the poor suppliant. On that dreadful day
The sword of Talbot,'"* clogg'd with hostile gore,
Made good its vaunt. Amid the heaps his arm
Had slain, the chieftain stood and sway'd around
His furious strokes: nor ceased he from the fight.
Though now, discomfited, the English troops
Fled fast, all panic-struck and spiritless.
And mingling with the routed, Fastolffe fled,
Fastolfl'e, all fierce and haughty as he was,'"-*
False to his former fame ; for he beheld
The Maiden rushing onward, and such fear
Ran through his frame, as thrills the African,
When, grateful solace in the sultry hour.
He rises on the buoyant billow's breast.
And then beholds the inevitable shark
Close on him, open-mouth'd.

But Talbot now
A moment paused, for bending thitherward
He mark'd a warrior, such as well might ask
His utmost force. Of strong and stately port
The onward foeman moved, and bore on high
A battle-axe,'"'' in many a field of blood
Known by the English chieftain. Over heaps
Of slaughter'd, he made way, and bade the troops
Retire from the bold Earl : then Conrade spake.
" Vain is tliy valor, Talbot ! look around.
See where thy squadrons fly ! but thou shalt lose
No honor, by their cowardice subdued.
Performing well thyself the soldier's part."

"And let them fly!" the indignant Earl ex-
claim'd,
" And let them fly ! and bear thou witness, chief
That guiltless of this day's disgrace, I fall.
But, Frenchman ! Talbot will not tamely fall,
Nor unrevenged."

So saying, for the war

58

JOAN OF ARC,

BOOK X,

He stood prepared : nor now with heedless rage
Tlie chainpiuiis Ibught, for either knew lull well
His focman's prowess : now they aim the blow
Insidious, with quick change then drive the steel
Fierce on the side exposed. The unfaithful arms
Yield to the strong-driven edge ; the blood streams

down
Their batter'd mail. With swift eye Conrade

mark'd
Tlie lifted buckler, and beneath impell'd
His battle-axe; that instant on his helm
The sword of Talbot fell, and with the blow
It broke. " Yet yield thee, Englishniaii ! " exclaim'd
The generous Frank ; " vain is this bloody strife :
Me should'st thou conquer, little would my death
Avail thee, weak and wounded ! "

" Long enough
Talbot has lived," replied the sullen chief:
" His hour is come ; yet shalt not thou survive
To glory in his fall ! " So, as he spake,
He lifted from the ground a massy spear,
And came again to battle.

Now more fierce
The conflict raged, for careless of liiinself,
And desperate, Talbot fought. Collected still
Was Conrade. Wheresoe'er his foeman aim'd
The well-thrust javelin, there he svifung around
His jruardian shield : the long and vain assault

to O

Exhausted Talbot now; foredone with toil,
He bare his buckler low for weariness ;
The buckler, now splintcr'd with many a stroke,''^
Fell piecemeal; from his riven arms the blood
Stream'd fast : and now the Frenchman's battle-
axe
Came unresisted on the shieldless mail.
But then he held his hand. " Urge not to death
This fruitless contest ! " he exclaim'd : " oh chief!
Are there not those in England who would feel
Keen anguish at thy loss.^ a wife perchance
Who trembles for thy safety, or a child
Needing a father's care ! "

Then Talbofs heart
Smote him. " Warrior ! " he cried, " if tliou dost

til ink
That life is worth preserving, hie thee hence,
And save thyself: I loathe this useless talk."

So saying, he address'd him to the fight,
Impatient of existence : from their arms
Fire flash'd, and quick they panted; but not long
Endured the deadly combat. With full force
Down through his shoulder even to the chest,
Conrade impell'd the ponderous battle-axe;
And at that instant underneath his shield
Received the hostile spear. Prone fell the Earl,
Even in his death rejoicing that no foe
Should live to boast his fall.

Then with faint hand
Conrade unlaced his helm, and from his brow
Wiping the cold dews ominous of death.
He laid him on the earth, thence to remove,
While the long lance hung heavy in his side,
Powerless. As thus beside his lifeless foe
He lay, the herald of the English Earl
With faltering step drew near, and when he saw

His master's arms, " Alas ! and is it you.

My lord .' " he cried. " God pardon you your sins !

1 have been forty years your officer,

And time it is 1 should surrender now

The ensigns of my office ! " So he said.

And paying thus his rite of sepulture.

Threw o'er the slaughter'd chief his blazon'd coat.'"*

Then Conrade thus bespake him : " Englishman,
Do for a dying soldier one kind act!
Seek for the Maid of Orleans, bid her haste
Hither, and thou shalt gain what recompense
It pleaseth thee to ask."

The herald soon.
Meeting the mission'd Virgin, told his tale.
Trembling she hasten'd on, and when she knew
The death-pale face of Conrade, scarce could Joan
Lift up the expiring warrior's heavy hand,
And press it to her heart.

" I sent for thee.
My friend ! " with interrupted voice he cried,
" That I might comfort this my dying hour
With one good deed. A fair domain is mine ;
Let Francis and his Isabel possess
That, mine inheritance." He paused awhile.
Struggling for utterance ; then with breathless

speed.
And pale as him he mourn'd for, Francis came.
And hung in silence o'er the blameless man.
Even with a brother's sorrow : he pursued,
" This, Joan, will be thy care. I have at home
An aged mother — Francis, do thou soothe
Her childless age. Nay, weep not for me thus :
Sweet to the wretched is the tomb's repose ! "

So saying, Conrade drew the javelin forth,
And died without a groan.

By this the scouts,
Forerunning the king's march, upon the plain
Of Patay had arrived, of late so gay
With marshall'd thousands in their radiant arms,
And streamers glittering in the noon-tide sun.
And blazon'd shields and gay accoutrements.
The pageantry of war ; but now defiled
With mingled dust and blood, and broken arms,
And mangled bodies. Soon the monarch joins
His victor army. Round the royal flag,
Uprear'd in conquest now, the chieftains flock,
Profiering their eager service. To his arms,
Or wisely fearful, or by speedy force
Compell'd, the embattled towns submit and own
Their rightful king. Baugenci strives in vain ;
Yenville and Mehun yield; from Sully's wall
Hurl'd is the banner'd lion : on they pass,
Auxerre, and Troyes, and Chalons, ope their gates,
And by the mission'd Maiden's rumor'd deeds
Inspirited, the citizens of Rheims
Feel their own strength ; against the English troops
With patriot valor, irresistible.
They rise, they conquer, and to their liege lord
Present the city keys.

The morn was fair
When Rheims reechoed to the busy hum
Of multitudes, for high solemnity
Assembled. To the holy fabric moves

BOOK X.

JOAN OF ARC,

59

The long procession, Ihrougli tlie streets bestrewn
With flowers and laurel boujrhs. The courtier

throni";
Were there, and they in Orleans, who endured
Tlie siege right bravely ; Gaucour, and La Hire,
The gallant Xaintrailles, Boussac, and Chabannes,
Alen^on, and the bravest of the brave.
The Bastard Orleans, now in hope elate,
Soon to release from hard captivity
J lis dear-beloved brother; gallant men.
And worthy of eternal memory.
For tliey, in the most perilous times of France,
Despair'd not of their country. By the king
The delegated Damsel pass'd along
Clad in her batter"d arms. She bore on high
Ilcr hallow'd banner to the sacred pile.
And fi.x'd it on the altar, whilst her hand
Pour'd on the monarch's head the mystic oil,'^^
Wafted of yore, by milk-white dove from heaven,
(So legends sav,) to Clovis when he stood
At Rhcims for baptism ; dubious since that day,
When Tolbiac plain reek'd with his warrior's blood.
And fierce upon their flight the Ahnanni prcst,
And rear'd the shout of triumph: in that hour
Clovis invoked aloud the Christian God
And conquer'd : waked to wonder thus, the chief
Became love's convert, and Clotilda led
Her husband to the font.

The raission'd Maid
Then placed on Charles's brow the crown of France,
And back retiring, gazed upon the king
One moment, quickly scanning all the past.
Till, in a tumult of wild wonderment.
She wept aloud. The assembled multitude
In awful stillness witness'd ; then at o-nce.
As with a tempest-rushing noise of winds,
Lifted their mingled clamors. Now the Maid
Stood as prepared to speak, and waved her hand,
And instant silence followed.

" King of France ! "
She cried, "at Chinon, when my gifted eye
Knew thee disguised, what inwardly the spirit
Prompted. I promised, with the sword of God,
To drive from Orleans far the English wolves,
And crown thee in the rescued walls of Rheims.
All is accomplish'd. I have here this day
Fulfill'd my mission, and anointed tiiee
King over this great nation. Of this charge.
Or well ])erform'd or carelessly, that God
Of Whom tliou boldest thine authority
W^ill take account ; from Him all power derives.
Thy dutv is to fear the Lord, and rule.
According to His word and to the laws.
The people thus committed to thy charge :
Theirs is to fear Him and to honor Thee,
And with that fear and honor to obey
In all things lawful ; both being thus alike
By duty bound, alike restricted botii
From wilful license. If thy heart be set
To do His will and in His ways to walk,
I know no limit to the happiness
Thou may'st create. 1 do beseech thee. King ! "
Tiie Maid exclaim'd, and fell upon the ground.
And clasp'd his knees, '■ I do beseech thee, King'
By all the thousands that depend on thee.

For weal or woe, — consider what thou art.

By Wliom appointed ! If thou dost oppress

Thy people, if to aggrandize thyself [them

Thou tcar'st them from their homes, and seiidest

To slaughter, prodigal of misery ;

If when the widow and the orphan groan

In want and wretcliedness, thou turnest thee

To hear the music of the flatterer's tongue ;

If, when thouhear'st of thousands who have fallen,

Tliou say st, ' I am a King ! and fit it is

That these should perish for me;' — if thy realm

Should, tiirough the counsels of thy government,

Be find with woe, and in thy streets be heard

The voice of mourning and the feeble cry

Of asking hunger ; if in place of Law

Iniquity prevail ; if Avarice grind

The poor; if discipline be utterly

Rclax'd, Vice charter'd, Wickedness let loose;

Thougl) in the general ruin all must share,

E.ich answer for his own peculiar guilt.

Yet at the Judgment-day, from those to whom

The power was given, the Giver of all power

Will call for rigliteous and severe account.

Choose thou the better part, and rule the land

In rigliteousness ; in righteousness th}' throne

Sliall then be stabllsh'd, not by foreign foes

Shaken, nor by domestic enemies,

But guarded then by loyalty and love.

True hearts, Good Angels, and All-seeing Heaven.

Thus spake the Maid of Orleans, solemnly
Accomplishing her marvellous mission here.

NOTES

Note 1, p. 13, col. I.— The Bastard Orleans.

" liCwes duke of Orlcance inurthereil in Paris, by Jlion
duke of Bur^oyiie, was owner of tlie castle of Coney, on the
frontiers of Fraunce toward Artlioys, whereof lie made con-
stable the lord of Canny, a man not so wise as his wifo was
laire, and yet she was not so faire, but she was as well be-
loved of the duke of Orloance, as of her husband. Betwenc
the duke and hrr husband (I cannot tell who was Otther), she
conceived a child, and brought furtlie a prety boye called Jhon,
wliicho child bryinj; of the age of one yere, the duke deceased,
and not long after the mother and the lord of Cawny bnded
their lives. The next of kynne to the lord Cawny chalenged
the inheritaunce, which was worth foure thousande crounes a
yere, alledgyng that the boye was a bastard : and the kynred
of the niother'a side, for to save her honesty, it plainly denied.
In conclusion, this matter was in contencion before the presi-
dentes of the parliament of Paris, and there hang in contro-
versio till the child came to the age of eight years old. At
whiclie tyme it was demanded of hym openly whose Sonne he
was ; his frendes of his mother's side advertised hym to re-
quire a day, to he advised of so great an answer, whiche ho
asked, and to hym it was granted. In the mean season, his
said frendes persuaded him to claiine his inheritance as sonno
to the lorde of Cawny, wliiche was an honorable livyng, and
an auncient patrimony, aflinning that if he saiil contrary, he
not only slaundered his mother, shamed hymsclf, and stained
his bloud, but also should have no livyng, nor any thing to
lake to. The scholemaster Ihinkyng that his disciple had
well learned his lesson, and would rehearse it according to
his instruccion, brought hym before the judges at the daio
assigned, and when the question was repeted to hym again,
he boldly answered, " My harte geveth me, and my tonge

(JO

NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC.

telleth mc, that I am the sonne ofthe noble duke of Orlcaunce,
more glad to be his bastarde, with a meane livyng, than the
lawful Sonne of that coward cuckoldo Cawny, with his four
rjiousand crownes." The judges much marvelled at his bolde
answcre, and his mother's cosyns detested hyrn for shaniyng
of his mother, and his father's supposed kinne rejoysed in
gaining the patrimony and possessions. Cliarles duke of
Urieaunce heryng of this judgment, took hym into his family,
and gave hym greute ollices and fees, whiche he well deserved,
for (during his captivitie), he defended his landos, expulsed
the Englirthmon, and in conclusion, procured his deliverance.
~IfaU,ff. 104.

There can be no doubt that Shakespeare had this anecdote
in his mind when ho wrote the first scene wherein the bastard
Falconbridge is introduced.

When the duke of Orleans was so villanously assassinated
by order of the duke of Burgundy, the murder was thought at
first to have been perpetrated by sir Aubert do Canny, says
Monstrellet, (Jolmes's translation, vol. i. p. 198,) from the
groat hatred he bore the duke for having carried off his wife ;
but llie truth was soon known who were the guilty persons,
and that sir Aul)ert was perfectly innocent ofthe crime. Ma-
rietta d'Enguien was the name ofthe adulteress.

" On rapportc que la duchcsse d^ Orleans, Valentine de Milan,
priticcssc celebrc par son esprit et par son courage, ayant d la
nouvelle de la morte sanglante de son cpoui, rassemllc toute sa
innison ct les principauL seigneurs de son parti, Icur addressa ces
paroles : ' Qiti de vous marehcra le premier pour vcnger la mart
da frerc de son Roy ? ' Frappe de terreur, chacun gardait un
mnrne silence. Indigne de voir que personne ne rcpondit d ce
nohle appii, le petit Jean d' Orleans {Dunois), alors &ge de sex
ans ct dcmi, s'avanga tout d coup an milieu de Vassemblce, et
s^ccria dhine coix animce : ' Ce sera moy, madame, etje me mon-
slreray digne d'estre son fils.' DrpuU ce moment, Valentine
oubliant la naissance illcgitime de ce jeune prince, avait congu
pour lui une affection vrainient maternelle. On lui avait en-
tendu dire au lit de la mart, et par une rspece de presentiment
de la grandeur future de ce herns, ' Qu'i7 lay avoit cstc emhle,
et qu'il n'y avoit nul do ses nifans qui fust si hien taille a venger
la mart dc son pcrc.^ Cette ardeur de vengeance Ventrahia
mime d'abord trop loin, et c'cst d pcu pres I'unique reproche
qu'on puisse faire a la jcunessc de. ce guemer. 11 se vanta
quetquefois, dans la premiere moitic de sa vie d^aroir immole de
sa main dix mille Bourguignons aux mclnes dc son pcre.^'

Le Brun de Charmentes, t. i. 99.

Note 2, p. 13, col. 1 . — Cheir^d with the Trohador's sweet
minstrelsy.

Liorraine, according to Cliaucer, was famous for its singers.
There mightest thou se these flutours,
Minstrallis and eke jogelours.
That vvel to singin did ther paine ;
Some songin songis of Loraine,
For in Loraine ther notis be
Full swetir than in this centre.

Romaunt ofthe Rose.
No mention is made of the Lorraine songs in the corre-
iponding lines ofthe original.

Ld estoicnt herprurs, Jlcutcurs,
Et de moult d'instrumens jongleurs ;
Les xins disoient chansons faictes,
Les aulres nottes nouvellcttes.

V. 770—3.

Note 3, p. 13, col. 2. — Gainsaying what she sought.

The following account of Joan of Arc is extracted from
a history ofthe siege of Orleans, prise de mot d mot, sans aucun
changcment de langage, d'un vieil exemplaire cscrit a la main en
parchemin, et trouvc en la maison dc la dicte villc d' Orleans.
Tioyes. 162L

•^ Or en ce temps avoit une jeune file au pais de Lorraine, aagee
de dii-huict ans ou environ, nommre Janne, natifue d'un paroisse
nomine Dompre,fillc d'un Laboureur nomine Jacques Tart ; qui
jamais n'aroit fait autre chose quegarder les bestes aux champs, a
la quelle, ainsi qu'rlle disoit, avoit esti reveli qui Dieu vovloit
qu'elle allast dcvers le Roi Charles septirsme, pour luy aider ct le
conseiller a recouvrer son royaume et ses villes et places que les
Anglois avoient conquises en ses pays. La quelle revelation elle

n'osa dire ses pere et mere, pource qu'cUe sgavoit bicn que jamais
n'eussent conscnty qu'elle yfusl allee ; et le prr.-ruada tant qu'il la
mena devers un geiitelhoiiune nomme Messire Robert de Baudri-
court, qui pour lors estoit Cappitaine de la rille, on chasleau de
Vaucauleur, qui est assci proehain dc la : auquel elle pria Ires
instanment qu'il la fist mencr devers le Roy de France, en leur
disant qu'il estoit tres necessairc qu'elle partast a luy pour le lien
de son royaume, et que elle luy feroit grand sccimrs et aide a re-
eouvrer son diet royaume, et que Dieu le vouluit ainsi, ct que U
luy avoit estc rcvele pur plusirursfuis. Des quclles parollis U
ne faisiiit que rire et se mocqatr et la rcpuloit incensee: toutes-
fois elle persevera tant et si longucment qu'il luy bailla un gen-
telhomme, nomme Ville Robert, itquclquc nombre de gens, les quels
la menerent devers le Roy que pour lors estoit a Chinon."

Note 4, p. 13, col. 2. — Of eighteen years.

This agrees with the account of her age given by Holinshed,
who calls her " a young wench of an eighteene years old ; of
favour was she counted likesome, of person stronglie made and
manlie, of courage great, bardic, and stout withall ; an undcr-
stander of counsels though she were not at them, greet sem-
blance of chastitie both of bodie and behaviour, liie name of
Jesus in hir mouth about all her businesses, humble, obedient,
and fasting divers days in the weeke." — Holinshed, GOO.

De Serres speaks thus of her : " A young maiden named
Joan of Arc, born in a village upon the Marches of Barre
called Domremy, neere to Vaucouleurs, ofthe age of eighteene
or twenty years, issued from base parents, her father was
named James of Arc, and her mother Isabel, poore country
folkes, who had brought her up to keep their cattell. She
said with great boldnesse that she had a revelation how to
succour the king, how he might be able to chase the English
from Orleance, and after that to cause the king to be crowned
at Rheims, and to put him fully and wholly in possession of
his realme.

" After she had delivered this to her father, mother, and
their neighbors, she presumed to go to the lord of Baudri-
court, provost of Vaucouleurs ; she boldly delivered unto him,
after an extraordinary manner, all these great mysteries, as
much wished for of all men as not hoped for: especially com-
ing from the mouth of a poore country maide, whom they
might with more reason beleeve to be possessed of some mel-
ancholy humour, than divinely inspired ; being the instriunent
of so many excellent remedies, in so desperat a season, after
the vaine striving of so great and famous personages. At the
first he mocked and reproved her, but having heard her with
more patience, and judging by her temperate discourse and
modest countenance tliat she s])oke not idely, in the end he
resolves to present her to the king for his discharge. So she
arrives at Chinon the sixt day of May, attired like a man.

"She had a modest countenance, sweet, civill,and resolute ■
her discourse was temperate, reasonable and retired, her ac
tions cold, shewing great chastity. Having spoken to the
king, or noblemen with whom she was to negociate, she
presently retired to her lodging with an old woman that guided
her, without vanity, affectation, babling or courtly lightnes^^e.
These are the manners which the Original attributes to her."

Edward Grimeston, the translator, calls her in the margin,
" Joane the Virgin, or rather Witch."

^^0TE 5, p. 13, col. 2. — Lest he in wrath confound me.

Then the word ofthe Lord came unto me, saying, " Before
I formed thee in the belly, I knew thee : and before thou
camest forth out ofthe v\'omb I sanctified thee, and I ordained
thee a prophet unto the nations."

Then said I, Ah, Lord God, behold I cannot speak, for I
am a child.

But the Lord said unto me, Say not, I am a child, for thou
shall go to all that I shall send thee, and whatsoever I com-
mand thee, thou shalt speak.

Thou therefore gird up thy loins, and arise, and speak unto
them all that I command thee : be not dismayed at their faces,
lest I confound thee before them. — Jeremiah, chap. i.

Note 6, p. 14, col. 2. — Tauglit wisdom to mankind!
But as for the mighty man, he had the e.'>rth, and the honor-
able man dwelt in it.

NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC.

61

Days should speak, and multitude of years should teach
wis.lom. — Job.

Note 7, p. 14, col. 2. — Rusk o'er the land, and desolate, and kill.
'• While tha English and French contend for dominion,
sovereignty and life itself, men's goods in France were vio-
lently taken by the license of war, churches spoiled, men every
where murthercd or wounded, others put to death or tortured,
matrons ravished, maids forcibly drawn from out their parents'
arms to bo dyllowered ; towns daily taken, daily spoyled,
d:uly defaced, the riches of the inhabitants carried whether the
conipierors think good ; houses and villa,'es round about set on
tire, no kind of cruelty is left unpractised ujion tlie miserable
French, omitting many hundred kind of otiier calamities which
all at once oppressed them. Add here unto that the com-
monwealth, being destitute of the help of laws (which for the
mo<t part are mute in limes of war and mutiny), floateth up
and down without any anchorage at right or justice. Neither
W.1S England herself void of these mischiefs, who every day
heard the news of her valiant children's funerals, slain in per-
petual skirmishes and bickerings, her general wealth con-
tinually ebbed and wained, so that the evils seemed almost
equal, and the whole western world echoed the groans and
sighs of either nation's quarrels, being the common argument
of speech and compassion through Christendom." — Speed.

Note 8, p. 15, col. 1. — there, in Vic hamlet Arc,

.My father's dwelling stands.

When Montaigne saw it in 1580, the front of the house was
covered with paintings representing the history of the Maid.
lie says, Ses descendans furent annohlis par faveur dii Roi, el
nous monstrarent Us amies que Ic Roi leur donna, qui soiit d'azur
d lui' e-fpde droite couronnce et poigiiee d'or, et deux ficurs de lis
d'or au cote de ladite espce ; de. quoy un rcctveur de yaucouleur
donna un escussnn peint d M. dc Casclis. Le dcvant de la
maisonnette od cUe naquit est toutc pclntc de scs gestrs ; mais
I'aage en a fort corrumpu la poiiiture. II y a ausfi un nhre Id
long d'unc vigne qu'on nommp I' afire de la PacvUe, qui n'a nidle
autre chose d rcmerquer. — Voyages dc Montaigne, i. p. 17.

Ce n'ctait qu'une maisunnttle ; et cepcndant elle a subsiste
jusqu' d nos jours, grace au zcle natinnaldu maire ctdcshabitans
de Domremy, qui pendant les dernicres nnnecs du gouvernement
imperial, voyant qu'on refusait dc leur allouer la somme neccssaire
pour son entretien, y suppleirait par une souscription volontaire ;
tant le respect et la veneration que les vertus inspiratt, peuvcnt
quelquefois prolonger la durce drs monumens les plus simples ct
les plus fragiles. — Le Brun dc Charmettes, t. i. 244.

It appears, however, that whatever might be the respect and
veneration of the inhabitants for this illustrious heroine and
martyr, they allowed the cottage in which she was born to be
villanously desecrated, very soon after their national feeling
had been thus praised. The author, whose book was published
only in the second year (1817) after the overthrow of the Im-
perial Government, adds the following note to this passage :
Drpuis I'epoque oii ce passage a etc ccrit, il parait que les choses
sontfort changies. On lit ce qui suit dans le JVarrateur de la
Meuse : " Les chambres oii logerent cclte heroine it ses parens
sont converties en itables ; dc vils animauz occupcnt I'nnplace-
ment du lit de Jeanne i'Arc. son armoire vermouluc revferme des
ustensilea d'ecurie."

Note 9, p. 15, col. 1. — By day I drove my father' s jlork afield.

" People found out a nest of miracles in her education, says
old Fuller, that so lion-Iikc a spirit should be bred among
aheep like David."

Note 10, p. 15, col. 1 . — With gorse flowers glowing, as the sun
illumed
Their golden glory.

It is said that when Linnieus was in England, he was more
(truck with the splendid appearance of the furze in blossom,
than with any other of our native plants. — Mrs. Bray's Letters,
i. 316.

Note 11, p. 15, col. 2.

- Death '. to the happnj thou art terrible ;
But how the wretched lore to think of thee,
0 thou true comforter, the friend of all
Who have no friend beside !

O Death, how bitter is tho remembrance of thee to a man
that liveth at rest in his possessions, unto the man that hath
nothing to vex him, and that hath prosperity in all things ,
yea unto him that is yet able to receive meat !

O Death, acceptable is thy sentence unto tho needy, nn^l
unto him whose strength faileth, that is now in the last age,
and is vexed with all things, and to him that despaireth, and
hath lost patience '. — Kcclesiasticus, xli. 1, 2.

Note 12, p. 10, col. 2. — Think well of this, young,man!

Dreadful indeed must have been the miseries of the French
from vulgar plunderers, when the manners of the highest
classes were marked by hideous grossness and vices that may
not he uttered.

" Of acts so ill examples are not good."

Sir William Alexander.
Yet it may be right to justify the saying in the text by an
extract from the notes to .Andrews's History of Great Uritain.
"Agricola quilihet, ."ponsam juvenem aequisitus, ac in vicinia
alicujus iri nobilis et pr<ppulentis hahitans, crudelis.^me vera-
tabur. M'empc nvnnunquam in ejus domum irrucns i.<ite optimeu",
magna comitante catervct, pretium ingeiis redemptiottis eiigereti
ac si non protinus solveret colonus, ustum miscrum in mnfpia area
protrudens, venustm ac tenerce uzori sua {super ipsam arcam
proslrata:) vim vir vobilis adferret ; voce exclamans horrenda,
' Aadine Rustice ! jamjam, super hanc arcam constirpratur
dilecta tua sponsa ! ' atque prracto hoc scelere ncfando relinque-
retur (horrcsco referens) suffocationc erpirans marilus, nisi
magna prctio sponsa nuper vitiata liberationem ejus rcdimc-
ret." — J. de Paris.

Let us add to this the detestable history of a great com-
mander under Charles VII. of France, the bastard of Kourbon,
who (after having committed the most execrable crimes during
a series of years with impunity) was drowned in 114 1, by the
constable Kichcmont, (a treacherous assassin himself, hut a
mirror of justice when compared to some of his contenipora
ries,) on its being proved against him " Quod super ipsum
maritum vi prostratum, uiori, frustrarepugnanti, vim adiulerat.
Ensuite il aroit fait battre et dccouper le mari, tant que c'ctoit
pitic a voir." — Mem. de Richnmont .

Note 13, p. 16, col. 2. — Think that there are such horrors.

I translate the following anecdote of the Black Prince from
Froissart : —

The Prince of Wales was about a month, and not longer,
before the city of Lymoges, and he did not assault it, but
always continued mining. When the miners of the prince
had finished their work, they said to him, " Sir, we will throw
down a great part of the wall into the moat whenever it shall
please you, so that you may enter into the city at your ease,
without danger." These words greatly pleased the prince,
who said to them, " I chuse that your work should be mani-
fested to morrow at the hour of day-break." Then the miners
set fire to their mines the next morning as the prince had
commanded, and overthrew a great pane of the wall, which
filled the moat where it had fallen. The English saw all this
very willingly, and they were there all armed and ready to
enter into tho town ; those who were on foot could enter at
their ease, and they entered and ran to the gate and heat it to
the earth and all the barriers also ; for there was no defence,
and all this was done so suddenly, that the people of the town
were not upon their guard. And then you might have seen
the prince, the duke of Lancaster, the count of Canlerbnrv,
the count of Pembroke, Messire Guischart Dangle, and all the
other chiefs and their people who entered in ; and ruffians on
foot who were prepared to do mischief, and to run through the
town, and to kill men and women and children, and so they
had been commanded to do. There was a full pitiful sight,
for men and women and children cast themselves on their knees
before the prince and cried " mercy ! " hut he was so enflamcd
with so great rage, that he heard them not ; neither man nor
woman would he hear, but they were all put to tho &word
wherever they were found, and these people had not been
guilty. I know not how they could have no pity upon poor
people, who had never been powerful enough to do any trea-
son. There was no heart so hard in the city of Lymoges
which had any remembrance of God, that did not lament the

63

NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC.

great mischief that was there ; for more than three thousand
men and women and eliiklren were put to death that day ;
God has tlieir souls, for indeed they were martyred. In en-
tering' llie town a party of the En^'lifh went to tlie palace of
the hishop and found him there, and took him and led liini
before the prince, wlio looked at him with a murderous look,
{fchnnrutirmeiit,) and the best word that he could say to him
was that his h^ad should be cut off, and then he made him be
taken fiom his presence. — I. 235.

Tlie crime which the people of Lymoges had committed
was that of surrenderin;; when they had been besieged by the
duke of Herry, and in consequence turning French. And
this crime was thus punished at a period when no versatility
of conduct was thi)u;,'ht dishonorable. The phrases luurner
Mn.<;luis — lournrr Vraii^Dis — rctotirncr Anirlois, occur repeat,
edly in Froissart. I should add that of all the heroes of this
period the Black Prince was the most generous and the most
humane.

After the English had taken the town of Monternau, the
seigneur de finitcry, who connnanded there, retired to the
castle ; and Henry V. threatened, unless he surrendered, to
hang eleven gentlemen, taken in the town. These poor men
entreated the governor to coni))ly, for the sake of saving their
lives, letting him at the same lime know how impossible it
was that his defence could be of any avail. lie was not to be
persuaded ; and when they saw this, and knew that they must
die, some of them requested that they might first see their
wives and their friends. This wis allowed : la y eut depitenz
re.nret.y- auprendrn conge, says Pierre de Fanin, and on the fol-
lowing morning tliey were executed as Henry had threatened.
The governor held out for fifteen days, and then yielded by
a capitulation which secured himself. — ( CoU. dcs Mcmoires,
. V. p. 4.'>l).)

In the whole history of these dreadful times I remember
but one man whom the cruelty of the age had not contami-
nated, and that was the Portugueze hero Nuno Alvarcs Pereira,
a man who appears to me to have been a perfect example of
patriotism, heroism, and every noble and lovely quality, above
all others of any age or country.

Atrocious, however, as these instances are, they seem as
nothing when compared to the atrocities which the French
exercised upon each other. Wlien Soissons was captured by
Oharles VI. (1411) in person, " in regard to the destruction
committed by the king's army (says Monstrellet), it cannot be
estimated ; for atli'r tliey had plundered all the inhabitants, and
their dwellings, they despoiled the cluirchcs and monasteries.
They even took and robbed the moit part of the sacred shrines
of many bodies of saints, which they stripped of all the pre-
cious stones, gold and silver, together with many other jewels
and holy things appprtaiiing to the albresaid churches. There
is not a christian but would have shuddered at the atrocious
xcesses committed by the soldiery in Soissons : married
women violated before their husbands ; young damsels in the
presence of their parents and relatives ; holy nuns, gentle-
women of all ranks, of whom there were many in the town ;
all, or the greater part, were violated against their wills by
divers nobles and others, who after having satiated their own
brutal passions, delivered them over without mercy to their
servants : and thore is no remembrance of such disorder and
havoc being done by christians, considering the many persons
of hi ;h rank that were present, and who made no efforts to
check them. There were also many gentlemen in the king's
armv who had relations in the town, as well secular as church-
men ; hut the disorder was not the less on that account." —
Vol. iv. p. dl.

What a national contrast is there between the manner in
which the English and French have co'iducted their civil wars !
Even in the wars of the Fronde, when all parlies were alike
tlioroughlv unprincipled, crueltiL-s were committed on both
sides which it mi,'lit have been thought nothing but the strong
feeli.igs of a perverted religious principle could have given
birth to.

Note 14, p. Id, col. 2. — Yet hangs nnd pulls fur food.

Holinshod says, speaking of the siege of Roan, " If I should
rehearse how deerelie dogs, rats, mice, and cats were sold
within the towne, and how greedilie they were by the poore
people eaten and devoured, and how the people dailie died
for fault of food, and young infanti late sucking in Vie strcds

on their mothers^ breasts, being dead starved for hunger, the
reader might lament their extreme miseries." — p. 566,

-Vote 1.5, p. 17, col. 1. — The sceptre of the wicked"!

" Do not the tears run down the widow's cheek .' and is not
her cry against him that causeth them to fall?

" The Lord will not be slack till he have smitten in sunder
the loins of the unmerciful, till he have taken away the multi-
tude of the proud, and broken the sceptre of the unrighteous."

— Ecclcsiasticus.

Note 1G, p. 17, col. 1. — The Fountain of the Faines.

In the Journal of Paris in the reigns of Charles VI. and
VII. it is asserted that the Maid of Orleans, in answer to an
interrogatory of the doctors, whether she had ever assisted at
the assend)lies held at the Fountain of the Fairies near Dom-
prein, round w liicli the evil spirits dance, confessed that she had
often repaired to a beautiful fountain in the country of Iior-
raine, which she named the good Fountain of the Fairies of
our Lord. — From the notes to the English version of Lc Grand's
Fabliaux.

Note 17, p. 17, col. 2. — They love to lie and rock upon its leaves.

Being asked whether she had ever seen any fairies, she
answered no ; but that one of her god-mothers pretended to
have seen some at the Fairy-tree, near the village of Dompre.

— Rapin.

Note 18, p. 17, col. 2. — Memory, thought, were gone.

" In this representation which I made to place myself near
to Christ (says St. Teresa), there would come suddenly upon
me, without cither expectation or any preparation on my i>art,
such an evident feeling of the presence of God, as that 1 could
by no means dcubt, but that either he was within me, or else
I all engulfed in him. This was not in the manner of a
vision, but I think they call it Mistical Theology ; and it
suspends the sou! in such sort, that she seems to be wholly
out of herself. The Will is in act of loving, the Memory
seems to be in a manner lost, the understanding, in my opinion,
discourses not ; and although it be not lost, yet it works not as
I was saying, but remains as it were amazed to consider how
much it understands." — Life of St. Teresa, written by herself.

Teresa was well acquainted with the feelings of enthusiasm.
I had, however, described the sensations of the Maid of Orleans
before I had met with the life of the saint.

Note 19, p. 17, col. 2. — ind they shall perish who oppress.

" Raise up indignation, and pour out wrath, and let them
perish who oppress the people ! " — Ecclcsiasticus, xxxvi.

Note 20, p. 18, col. 1. — The hoarse grasshoppers their evening
song
Sung shrill and ceaseless.

The epithets shrill and hoarse will not appear mcongruous
to one who has attended to the grasshopper's chirp. Gazaius
has characterized the sound by a word certainly accurate, in
his tale of a grasshopper who perched \i\ion St. Francis's
finger, and sung 'he praise of God and the wonders of his own
body in his vernacuM. tongue, St. Francis and all the grass-
hoppers listening with equal edification.

Cicada

Canebat (at sic efferam) cicadice.

Pia miaria Angelini OaKEi.

Perhaps he remembered two lines in the Zanitonella of the
Macaronic poet,

Scnlis an quanta cicigant Cigala!,
Qua: mi/ii rumpunt cicigando testam.

The marginal note says, Cicigare, vox cicadas vel cigala;.

St. Francis labored much in the conversion of animals
In the fine series ofpictures representing his life, lately painted
for the new Franciscan convent at Madrid, I recollect seeing
him preach to a congregation of birds. Gazaeus has a poem
upon bis instructing a ewe. His advice to her is somewhat
curious :

NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC,

03

yide nr, arides, neoe in vboios ruas :
Cave devovcndos Jlosciiliis aharibus
Vcl ore lacircs, vcl bfurcuto pcde.
Mule feriatdi felts instur, jrruttras

Tlmrc is oiiothcr upon his converting two lamba, whose prayers
were more accciitiiMc to Goil, Marot ! says lie, tlian your
psalms. Il'tlie nun, who took cure of tliem in his absence,
was incliueil to lie a-bed —

Prater ^^nvs banc bcS bc£ sua

Deviitu^' eicitaOat.

O a^HCJam 7ton aa-nc sed doctor bond

Note 21, p. IS, col. 1. — The memory of lui prison'd years.

The JIaiU declared upon her trial, that God loved the duke
of Orleans, and that she had received more revelations con-
cerning him, than any person living, except the kin?. — H'ipin.

Orleans, during his long captivity, " liad learnt to court the
fair ladies of England in their native strains." Among the
Harleian JISS. is a collection of" love poems, roundels and
songs," composed by the French prince during his confine-
ment.

Note 22, p. 13, col. 2. — The prisoners of tltat shameful Jay
out summ'd
Their conquerors !

According to Holinshcd, the English army consisted of only
15,000 men, harassed with a tedious march of a month, in
very bad weather, through an enemy's country, and for the
most part sick of a flux. He states the number of French at
00,000, of whom 10,000 were slain, and 1500 of the higher
order taken prisoners. Some historians make the dispropor_
tion in numbers still greater. Goodwin says, that among the
slain there were one archbisliop, three dukes, six earls, ninety
barons, fifteen hundred knights, and seven thousand esquires
or gentlemen.

Note 23, p. 18, col. 2. — Frcm his herscd bowmen how the
arroicsflew.

This was the usual method of marshalling the bowmen. At
Cressy " tho archers stood in manner of an herse, about two
hundred in front and but forty in depth, which is undoubtedly
the best way of embattling archers, especially when the enemy
is very numerous, as at this time : for by the breadth of the
front the extension of the enemies front is matched ; and by
rea^ion of the thinness in flank, the arrows do more certain
execution, being more likely to reach home." — Barnes.

The victory at Poictiers is chiefly attributed to the herse of
archers. After mentioning the conduct and courage of the
English leaders in tliat battle, Uarnes says, " But all this
courage had been thrown away to no purpose, had it not been
Beconded by the extraordinary gallantry of the English archers,
who behaved themselves that day with wonderful constancy,
alacrity, and resolution. So that by their means, in a manner,
all the French battails received their first foil, being by the
barbed arrows so galled and terrified, that they were easily
opened to the men of arms."

" Without all question, the guns which are used now-a-<lays
are neither so terrible in battle, nor do such execution, nor
work such confusion as arrows can do : for bullets being not
seen only hurt when they hit, but arrows enrage the horse,
and break the array, and terrify all that behold them in the
bodies of their neighbors. Not to say that every archer can
shoot thrice to a gunner's once, and that whole squadrons of
bows may let fly at one time, when only one or two files of
musqnetcers can discharge a*, once. Also, that whereas
guns are useless when your pikes join, because they only do
ircecution point blank, the arrows which will kill at random,
may do good service even behind your men of arms. And it
is notorious, that at the famous battle of Lepanto, the Turkish
bows did more mischief than the Christian artillery. Besides
It is not the least observable, that whereas the weakest may
use s:uns as well as the strongest, in those days your lusty and
tall yeomen were chosen for the bow; whose hose being fas-
tened with one point, and their jackets long and easy to shoot
in, they had their limbs at full liberty, so that tlioy might
easily draw bows of great strength, and shoot arrows of a
yard long beside the head." — Joshua Barnes.

Note 24, p. 18, col. 2. — To turn en the defenceless pruioncrs
The cruel sword of conr/uest

During the heat of the combat, when the English had
gained the u|>per hand, and made several prisoners, news was
brought to king Henry that the French were attacking his
rear, and had already captured the greater part of his bagg;ige
and sumpter-horses. This was indeed true, for Robinet de
Bournonville, Rifllart de Clamasse, Ysambart d'Azincourt,
and some other men at arms, with about six hundred pcusanl-i,
had fallen upon and taken great part of the king's baggage,
and a number of horses, while the guard was occupied in the
battle. This distressed the king very much, for he saw that
though the French army had been routed, they were collecting
on dilierent parts of the plain in large bodies, and he was
afraid they would resume the battle : he therefore caused
instant proclamation to be made by sound of trumpet, that
every one should put his prisoners to death, to prevent them
from aiding the enemy, should the combat be renewed. This
caused an instantaneous and general massacre of the French
prisoners, occasioned by the disgraceful conduct of Robinet de
Bournonville, Ysambart d'Azincourt, and the others, who
were afterwards jiunished for il, and imprisoned a very long
time by duke John of Burgundy, notwithstanding they had
made a present to the count de Charolois of a most precious
sword ornamented with diamonds, that had belong-jd to the
king of England. They had taken this sword, with other
rich jewels, from king Henry's baggage, und had made this
present, that in case they should at any time be called to an
account for what they had done, the count might stand their
friend. — Monjstrelet, vol. iv. p. 180.

When the king of England had on this Saturday begun his
march towards Calais, many of the French returned to the
field of battle, v.here the bodies had been turned over more
than once, some to seek for their lords, and carry them to their
own countries for burial, others to pillage what the English
had left. King Henry's army had only taken gold, silver,
rich dresses, helmets, and what was of value, for which reason
the greater part of the armor was untouched, and on the dead
bodies ; but it did not long remain thus, for it was very soon
stripped olf, and even the shirts and all other parts of their
dress were carried away by the peasants of the adjoining
villages.

The bodies w'ere left exposed as naked as when they came
into the world. On the Saturday, Sunday, INIonday, Tuesday,
and Wednesday, the corpses of many princes v/ere well
washed and raised, namely, the dukes of Brabant, Bar, and
AleiKjon, the counts de Nevers, de Blaumont, de Vaudeniont)
de Faulquemberge, the lord de Dampicrre, admiral sir Charles
d'Albreth, constable, and buried in the church of the Friars
Minors at Hesdin. Others were carried by their servants,
some to their own countries, and others to difterent churches.
All who were recognized werq taken away, and !3uiied in the
churches of their manors.

When Philippe count de Charolois heard of the unfor-
tunate and melancholy disaster of tlie French, ho was ir. great
grief; more especially for the death of his two uncles, the
duke of Brabant and count de Nevers. Moved by compas-
sion, hi^ caused all that had remained exposed on the field of
battle to be interred, and commissioned the abbot de Kous-
sianville and the bailiff of Aire to have it done. They meas.
urcd out a square of twenty-five yards, wdiercin were dug
three trenches twelve feet wide, in which were buried, by an
account kept, five thousand eight hundred men. It was not
known how many had been carried away by their friends, nor
what number of the wounded had died in hospitals, towns,
villages, and even in the adjacent woods ; but, as I have
before said, it must have been very great.

This square w'as consecrated as a buryiug-ground by the
bishop of Guines, at the command and as procurator of Louis
de Luxembourg, bishop of Therounne. It was surrounded
by a strong hedge of thorns, to prevent wolves or dogs from
entering it, and tearing up and devouring the bodies.

In consequence of this sad event, some learned clerk of the
realm made the following verses :

A chief by dolorous iruschance opprcss'd,
.\ prince who rules by arbitrary will,

A royal house by discord sore distress'd,
A council prejudiced and partial still,

64

NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC.

Subjects by prodigality brought low,

Will fill the land with beggars, well we trow.

Nobles made noble in dame Nature's spite
A timorous clergy fear, and truth conceal ;

While huii]blu commoners forego their right,
And the harsh yoke of proud oppression feel :

Thus, while the people mourn, the public woe

Will fill the land with beggars, well we trow.

Ah feeble woe ! whose impotent commands
The very vassals boldly dare despise :

Ah helpless monarch ! whose enervate hands
And wavering counsels dare no high emprize,

Thy hapless reign will cause our tears to flow,

And fill the land with beggars, well we trow.

Johnes's Monstelet, vol. iv. p. 195.

According to Pierre de Fcnin, the English did not bury
their own dead ; but their loss was so small that this is very
unlikely. He says, ^pres cette doidourcuse joumce^ ct que
touies les deux parties sefurcnt retirees, Louxjs de Luxembourg,
qui cstoit Eoesque de Teruuane, fit faire en la place uu la bataillc
avoit estc domi^c plusiuers charniers, ou ilfit assembler tons les
marts d'un caste et d'autre ; et Id les fit entcrrer, puis U henit la
place, el la fit enclore de fortes kayes tout autour, pour la
garantir du bestial.

After the battle of Agincourt Henry lodged at Maisoncclle ;
le lendcmain au matin il en deslogeu, el alia passer tout au milieu
des marts qui avoient estc tucz en cc combat; Idil s'arresta grand
espace dc temps, et tirirent ses gens encor des prisonniers hors
du nombre des marts, qu'ils evimenercnt arec eux. — Coll. des
Memoires. t. v. p. 384.

Note 25, p. 19, col. 1. — Fromthe disastrous plain of Agincourt.

Perhaps one consequence of the victory at Agincourt is not
generally known Immediately on his return Henry sent his
legates to the council of Constance : " at this councell, by the
assent of all nations there present, it was authorised and
ordained, that England should obtaine the name of a nation,
and should be said one of the five nations that owe their de-
votion to the church of Rome, which thing untill that time
men of other nations, for envy, had delayed and letted." —
Stowe, Klmham.

Note 26, p. 19, col. 1. — Henry, as wise as brave, had back to
England.

Henry judged, that by fomenting the troubles of France, he
nhould procure more certain and lasting advantages than by
means of his arms. The truth is, by pushing the French
vigorously, he ran the risk of uniting them all against him ;
ill which case, his advantages, probably, would have been in-
considerable ; but by granting them some respite, he gave
them opportunity to destroy one another : therefore, contrary
to every one's expectation, he laid aside his military aflfairs
for near eighteen months, and betook himself entirely to ne-
gotiation, which aflTorded him the prospect of less doubtful
advantages. — Rapin.

Note 27, p. 19, col. 1. — For many were the warrior so?is of
Roan.

" Yet although the armie was strong without, there lacked
not within both hardie capteins and manfuU soldiers, and as
for people, they had more than inough : for as it is written by
some that had good cause to know the truth, and no occasion
to erre from the same, there were in the citie at the time of
the siege 210,000 persons. Dailie were issues made out of
the citie at diverse gates, sometime to the losse of the one
partie and sometimes of the other, as chances of warre in such
adventures happen." — Holinshed, 5G6.

Note 28, p. 19, col. 1. — Haxl made them, vow before Almighty
God.
" The Frenchmen indeed preferring fame before worldlie
riches and despisingpleasure (the enemy to warlike prowesse),
Bware ech to other never to render or deliver the citie, while
they might either hold sword in hand or speare in rest."
— Holinshed, 566.

Note 29, p. 19, col. 1. — Had made a league with Famine.

" The king of England advertised of their hautie courages,
determined to conquer them by famine which would not he
tamed by weapon. Wherefore he slopped all the passages,
both by water and land, that no vittels could be conveied to
the citie. He cast trenches round about the walls, and set
them full of slakes, and defended them with archers, so that
there was left neither waie for them within to issue out, noi
for anie that were abroad to enter in without his license. —
The king's coosine germane and alie (the king of Por(ugale)
sent a great navie of well-nppointed ships unto the mouth .if
the river Peine, to stop that no French vessel should enler
the river and passe up the same, to the aid of them will. in
Rouen.

"Thus was the faire citie of Rouen compassed about wi b
enemies, both by water and land, having neither comfort nui
aid of king, dolphin, or duke." — Holinshed, SOti.

King Henry of England marched a most powerful army,
accompanied by a large trainof artillery and warlike stores, m
the month of June, before the noble and potent town of Rouen,
to prevent the inhibitants and garrison from being supplied
with new corn. The van of his army arrived there at mid-
night, that the garrison might not make any sally against
them. The king was lodged at the Carthusian convent ; the
duke of Gloucester was quartered before the gate of St.
Hilaire ; the duke of Clarence at the gate of Caen ; the earl of
Warwick at that of Martinville ; the duke of Exeter and earl
of Dorset at that of Beauvais : in front of the gate of the
castle were the lord marshal and sir John de Cornwall. At
the gate leading to Normandy were posted the earls of Hunt-
ingdon, Salisbury, Kyme, and the lord Neville, son to the eail
of Westmoreland. On the hill fronting St. Catherine's were
others of the English barons. Before the English could forlifv
their quarters, in.iny sallies were made on them, and several
severe skirmishes passed on both sides. But the English, so
soon as they could, dug deep ditches between the town and
ihem, on the top of which tliey planted a thick hedge of
thorns, so that they could not otherwise be annoyed than by
cannon .shot and arrows. They also built a jette on the banks
of the Seine, about a cannon shot distant from the town, to
which they fastened their chains, one of tlicm half a foot under
the water, another level with it, and a third two fi'et above the
stream, so that no boats could bring provision to the town, nor
could any esc.ipe from it that way. They likewise dug deep
i:alleries of communication fiom one quarter to another, which
completely sheltered those in them from cannon or other war-
like machines. — Monstrelct, vol. v. p. 40.

Note 30, p. 19, col. 2. — Desperate endurance.

" Afler he had prosecuted the siege of this place (or some
time, the cardinal Ursino repaired to his camp, and endeavored
to persuade him to moderate his terms, and agree to an equi-
table peace ; but the king's reply |)lainly evinced his deter-
mination of availing himself of the present situation of public
affairs ; ' Do you not see,' said he, ' that God has brought me
hither, as it were by the hand.' The throne of France may
be said to be vacant ; I have a good title to that crown ; the
whole kingdom is involved in the utmost disorder and confu-
sion ; few are willing, and still fewer are able, to resist me.
Can I have a more convincing proof of the interposition of
heaven in my favor, and that the .^'uprenie Ruh't of all things
has decreed that I should ascend the throne of France.'" —
Hist, of England, by Hugh Clarendon.

Note 31, p. 19, col. 2. — Could we behold their savage Irish
Kerns.

" With the English sixteen hundred Irish Kernes were
enrolled from the prior of Kilmainham ; able men, but almost
naked ; tlieir arms were targets, darts, and swords ; their horses
little, and bare no saddle, yet nevertheless nimble, on which
upon every advantage they plaied with the French, in spoiling
the country, rifeling the houses, and carrying away children
with their baggage upon their cowes backs." — Speed, p. 638.

The king of England had in his army numbers of Irish, the
greater part of whom were on foot, having only a stocking and
shoe on one leg and foot, with the other quite naked. They
had targets, short javelins, and a strange sort of knives. Those

NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC.

65

who were on horseback had no saddl^fi, but rode excellently
well on small nionntuin horses, and were mounted on such
panniers ns are used by the carriers of corn in pans ol France,
riicy were, however, miserably accoutred in comparison willi
the English, and without any arms that could much hurt the
French whenever they nii^'ht meet them.

Tliesi; Irish made frequent excursions during the siege over
Normandy, and did inlinito mischiefs, carrying back to their
camp large booties. I'hose on foot look men, and even
cliildren from the cradle, with beds and furnilure, and placing;
Iheju on cows, drove all these things before them, for they
v.-ere often met thus by the French. — Monstreiet, v. p. 42.

Note 32, p. 19, col. 2. — Ruffians lialf-dolhed, half-human, half
baptized.

" In some corners of Connaught, the people leave the right
armes of their infants male unchristencd (as they teimo it), to
the end that at any time afterwards they might give a more
deadly and ungracious blow when they strike ; which things
doe not only show how palpably Ihey are cariied away by tra-
ditious obscurities, but doe also intimate how lull their hearts
be of inveterate revenge."

The book from which this extract is taken wants the title.
The title of the second part is, ^ Prospect of the mostfamou.^
Paris of the Worll. Printed for Wdliam Humble, in Pope's
Head Place. 1646.

Note 33, p. 19, col. 2. — Of Ifnrjleur^s wretched people driven
out.

" Some writing of this yeelding up of Harfleur, doo in like
sort make mention of the distresse whereto the people, then
expelled out of their habitations, were driven ; insomuch as
parents with their children, yong maids, and old folke went
out of the towne gates with heavie harts (God wot), as put to
their present shifts to seek them a new abode." — Holinshed,
550.

This act of barb irity was perpetrated by Henry, that he
might people the town with English inhabitants. "This
doth Anglorum pra'lia report, saieng(not without good ground
1 believe), as followeth :

Turn flentes tenera cum prole parentes
Virgineusque chorus veteres liquiire penates :
Turn populus cunctus de portis Gallicus exit
M<BStus, inarmatus, vacuus, miser, a>ger, inopsqne,
Utque novas sedes quadrat migrare coactus :
Oppidulo belli potiuntur jure Britanni ! " — Holinshed.

There is a way of telling trutn so as to convey falsehood.
After the capture of Harfleur, .Stowe says, " All the soldiers
and inhabitants, both of the towne and towers, were suffered to
^oc freely, unharmed, whither tliey would." — 318. Henry's
conduct was the same at Caen : he " commanded all women
and children to bee avoyded out of the towne, and so the
towne was inhabited of new possessors." — Stowc.

which they found closed and shut against them, and so they
laie betwoenc the wals of the cilic and the trenches of the
enemies, still crieing for help and releefo, for lack whereof
great numbers of them dailie died." — Holinshed.

Note 34, p. 19, col. 2. — Knelt at the altar.

Before Henry took possession of Harfleur, he went bare-
footed to the church to give God thanks. — De Sn-res.

Note 35, p. 19, col. 2. — In cold blood slaughtered.

Henry, not satisfied with the reduction of Caen, put several
of the inhabitants to death, who had signaliied their valor in
the defence of their liberty. — H. Clarendon.

Note 3fi, p. 19, col. 2. — He groan'd and curs'din bitterness of
heart.
After the capture of the city " Luca Italico, the vicar
generall of the archbishoprike of Rouen, for denouncing the
king accursed, was delivered to him and deteincd in prison till
he died." — Holinshed. Titus Livius,

Note 37, p. 20, col. 1. — Drive back tjte miserable multitude.

" A great number of poore sillie creatures were put out of

the gates, which were by the Englishmen that kept the

trenches beaten and driven back again to the same gates,

9

Note 38, p. 20, col. 1. — jSnrf irAra wc sntt the herald to intpUnre
His mercy.

.\t this period, a priest of a tolerable age, and of clear un-
derstanding, was deputed, by those besieged in Rouen, to the
king of France and his council. On his arrival at Paris, he
caused to be explained, by an Augustin doctor, named F.ustace
de la I'aville, in presence of the king and his ministers, the
miserable situation of the besieged. He took for his text,
^' Diimine, quid facirmus'! " and harangueil upon it very ably
and eloquently. When he had finished, the priest addressed
the king, saying, " Most excellent prince and lord, I am en-
joined by the inhabitants of Rouen to make loud complaints
against you, and against you duko of Burgundy, who govern
the king, for the oppressions they suffer from the English.
They make known to you by me, that if, from want of being
succored by you, they are forced to become subjects to the
king of England, you will not have in all the world more bitter
enemies ; and if they can, they will destroy you and your
whole congregation." With these or with similar words did
this priest address the king and his council. After he had
been well received and entertained, and the duke of Burgundy
had promised to provide succors for the town of Rouen as
speedily as possible, he returned the best way he could to carry
this news to the besieged.^ Monstrekt, vol. v. p. 54.

One of the deputed citizens, "showing himself more rash
than wise, more arrogant than learned, took upon him to show
wherein the glorie of victorie consisted; advising the king not
to show his manhood in famishing a multitude of poore simple
and innocent people, but rather suffer such miserable wretches
as laie betwixt the walls of the citie and the trenches of his
siege, to passe through the camp, that theie might get their
living in other places ; then if he durst manfullie assault the
place, and by force subdue it, he should win both worldlie
fame, and merit great meed from the hands of Almighlie (7od,
for having compassion of the poore, needio, and indigent
people. When this orator had said, the king with a fierce
countenance and bold spirit, reproved them lor their malapert
presumi)tion, in that they should seeme to go aliout to teach
him what belonged to tlie dutie of a conqueror, and therefore
since it appeared that the same was unknown to them, he
declared that the goddesse of bittell called Bellona had three
handmaidens, ever of necessitie attending upon her, as Blood,
Fire, and Famine, and whereas it laie in his choice to use
them all three, he had appointed onelie the meekest maid of
those three damsels to punish them of that citie till they were
brought to reason. This answer put the French ambassador
in a great studie, musing much at his cxedlcKt irit and hawti-
nesse of courage." — Holinshed.

While the court resided at Beauvais, four gentlemen and
four citizens of Rouen were sent to liy before the king and
council their miserable state : they told them that thousands
of persons were already dead with hunger, within their town ;
and that from the beginning of October, they had been forced
to live on horses, dogs, cats, mice, and rats, and other things
unfit for human creatures. They had nevertheless driven full
twelve thousand poor people, men, women, and children, out
of the place, the greater part of whom hud perished wretch-
edly in the ditches of the town. That it hid been frequently
necessary to draw up in baskets now-born children from
mothers who had been brought to bed in these ditches, to
have them baptized, and they were afterwards returned to
their mothers ; many, however, had perished without christen-
ing— all which things were grievous and pitiful to be related.
They then adiled, "To you our lord and king, and to you
noble duke of Burgundy, the loyal inhabitants of Rouen have
before made known their distress : they now again inform you
how much they are suffering for you, to which you have not
yet provided any remedy according to your promises. We
are sent to you for the last time, to announce to you, on the
part of the besieged, that if within a few days they are not
relieved, Ihey shall surrender themselves and their town to
the English king, and thenceforward renounce all allegiance,
faith, and service, which they have sworn to you." The king.

66

NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC.

duke, and council, courteously replied, that the king's forcea
were not as yet adeiiuiite to raise the siege, which tliey were
exceediiigly sorry for ; hut, with Goil's pleasure, they should
very soon bo relieved. The deputic;s asked by what time ;
the duke answered, before the fourth day after Christmas.
They then returned to their town with difficulty, from the
great danger of being taken by the besiegers, and related all
that had passed.

The besieged now suffered the greatest distress ; and it is
impossible to recount the miseries of the common people from
famine : it was afterward known that upwards of fifty thou-
sand had petislie<l of iiunger. Some, when they snw meat
carried through the street, in despair, ran to seize it, and so
doing, allowed themselves to be severely beaten, and even
wounded. During the space of three months no provisions
wore seen in the markets, but every thing wa.s sold secretly ;
and what before the siege was worth a farthing, was sold for
twenty, thirty, or even forty ; but those prices were too high
for the common people, and hence the great mortality 1 have
mentioned. — Mo:istnlct, vol. v. p. Gl.

Note .W, p. '20, col. 1. — ji cry of fremy'mg anguish.

The names of our Edwards and Henries are usually cited
together, but it is disgracing the Black Prince and his father
to mention them with Henry of Monmouth. He was a hard-
hearted man. We have seen what was his conduct to the
famished fugitives from Ro;in. The same circumstance oc-
curred at the siege of Calais, and the dilference between the
monarclis cannot be better e.vemplided than in the difference
of their conduct upon the same occasion. " When sir John
de Vienne perceived that king Edward intended to lie long
there, he thought to rid the town of as many useless mouths
as he could ; and so on a Wednesday, being the IJth of Sep-
tember, he forced out of the town more than seventeen hun-
dred of the poorest and least necessary people, old men,
women, and children, and shut the gates upon them : who
bcmg demanded, wherefore they came out of the town, an-
swered with great lamentation, that it was because they had
nothing to live on. Then king Edward, who was so fierce in
battle, showed a truly royal disposition by considering the sad
condition of these forlorn wretches ; for he not only would
not force them back again into the town, whereby they might
help to consume the victuals, but he gave them all a dinner
and two pence a-piece, and leave to piss through the army
without the least molestation : whereby he so wrought upon
the hearts of these poor creatures, that many of them prayed
to God for his prosperity." — Joshua Barnes.

Note 40, p. 20, col. 1. — JVor when Ike traitor yielded up our
town.

Roan was betrayed by its Butgundian governor Bouthellier.
During the siege fitly thousand men perished through fatigue,
want, and the use of unwholesome provisions.

Note 41, p. 20, col. 1. — The gallant Blanchard died.

Roy d'.^ngleterre Jist coupper la teste a Mllain Blancliart
cappitaine da commun. — Monstrelet, ff. cxcvii.

Note 42, p. 20, col. I. — There where the wicked cease.

There the wicked cease from troubling ; and the weary be
at rest. — Job, iii. 17.

Note 43, p. 20, col. 2. — jj pompous shade.

Cent drapraiix funebres
Etaloient en pleinjour de pinnpcuses tenebres.

Le JHoyne. St. Louis. Liv. xvi.

Note 44, p. 20, col. 2. — In the mid-day sun a dim and gloomy
light.

" When all things necessary were prepared for the convey-
ance of the dead king into England, bis body was laid in a
chariot, which was drawn by four great horses : and above
the dead corpse, they laid a figure made of boiled hides, or
leather, representing his person, as near to the semblance of

him as could be devised, painted curiously to the similitude
of a living creature ; upon whose head was set an imperial
diadome of gold and precious stones, on his body a purple
robe furred with ermine, and in his right hand he held a scep-
tre royal, and in his left hand a ball of gold, with a cross
fixed thereon. And in this manner adorned, was this figure
laid in a bed in the said chariot, with his visage uncovered
towards the heaven: and the coverture of his bed was red
silke beaten with gold; and besides that, when the body
should passe through any good towne, a canopy of marvellous
great value was borne over the chariot by men of great wor-
ship. In this manner, accompanied of the king of Scots and
of all princes, lords, and knights of his house, he was brought
from Koane to Abville, where the corpse was set in the church
of Saint Ulfrane. From Ahville he was brought to Hedin,
and from thence to .Aionstiuoil, so to Bulloigne, and so to
Calice. In all this journey were many men about the chariot
clothed all in white, which bare in their hands torches burning:
after whome followed all the household servants in blackc,
and after them came the princes, lords, and estates of the
king's blood, adorned in vesluies of mourning; and afler all
this, from the said corpse the distance of two English mylis,
followed thequeeneof England right honorably accompanyed
In this manner they entered Calice." — Stome.

At about a league distant followed the queen, with a numer-
ous attendance. From Calais they embaiked for Dover, and
passing through Canterbury and Rochester, arrived at London
on Martinmas-day.

When the funeral approached London, fifteen bishops
dressed in jmutificnlibus, several mitred abbots and church-
men, with a multitude of persons of all ranks, came out to
meet it. The churchmen chanted the service for the dead
as it passed over London-bridge, through Lombard-street, to
St. I'aul's cathedral. Near the car were the relations of the
late king, uttering loud lamentations. On the collar of the
first horse that drew the car were emblazoned the ancient
arms of England ; on that of the second, the arms of Franco
and England quartered the .same as he bore during his life-
time ; on that of the third, the arms of France simply ; on
that of the fourth horse were painted the arms of the noble
king Arthur, whom no one could conquer: they were three
crowns or, on a shield azure.

When the funeral service had been royally performed in the
cathedral, the body was carried to be interred at Westminster
abbey with his ancestors. At this funeral, and in regard to
every thing concerning it, greater pomp and expense were
made than had been done for two hundred years at the inter-
ment of any king of England ; and even now as much honor
and reverence is daily paid to his tomb, as if it were certain
he was a saint in Paradise.

Thus ended the life of king Henry in the flower of his age,
for when he died he was but forty years old. He was very
wise and able in every business he undertook, and of a deter-
mined character. During the seven or eight years he iiiled in
France, he made greater conquests than any of his predecessors
had done: it is (rue ho was so feared by his princes and
captains, that none dared to disobey his orders, however nearly
related to him, more especially his English subjects. In this
state of obedience were his subjects of France and England
in general ; and the principal cause was, that if any person
transgressed his ordinances, he had him instantly punished
without favor or mercy. — Minstretrt, vol. v. p. 375.

•A noble knight of Picardy used a joking expression to his
herald respecting king Henry, which was allerwards of>i'n
repeated. ?ir Sarrasin d' Arly, uncle to the Vidame of Amiens,
who might be about sixty years of age, resided in the castle
of Achere, which he had with his wife, sister to the lord
d'Offemonl, near to Pas in Artois. Ho was laid up with the
"out, but very eager in his inquiries after news nf what was
going on. One day his poursuivant, named Ilaurenas, of the
same age as himself, and who had long served him, rcturn'd
from making the usual inquiries; and on sir Sarrasin ques-
tioning him and asking him if he had heard any particulars of
the death of the king of England, he said that he had, and
had even seen his corpse .".t Ablicville, in the church of t't.
Ulfrun , and then related how he was attired, nearly as has
been before descrilied. The knight then asked him on his
faith if he had diligently observed him.' On his answering
that he had, " Now, on thy oath, tell me," added sir Sarrasin,

NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC.

67

" if lio had h^ boots on ? " " No, my loril, by my fuith he
hud not." The kniijlit then cried out, " Ilaureuas, my good
I'liond, novfir believo nio if ho htu not left them in Franco I "
This expression set the company a lauijliing, and then they
talked of other matters. — JIuiuitrdct, vol. v. p. 377.

Note 45, p. 2), col. 2. — Their dangerous way.

The governor of Vuuroulour appointed deuz <;aililshommrjs to
conduct the .Maid lo Chinoii. '^ [Is curcnt peine d se charger
de cette commission, a cause i/u'U fallotl pa-iser uu travers du
pays enneiiii ; mais die leur dit avccfermetc qu'ils ne craiffnis-
sent rien, el que suremcnt etix et cllc arriveroient aupris du roi,
sans qu'il Icur arricat rien defhcheujc.

lis patirent, passerent par I' .^uzerrois sans obstacle quoifjue
les .^nirlois en f assent les mattrcs, traversirent plas-icurs riviircs
d la nage, entrerent dans les pays de la diminution du roi, c/ti les
parties ennetnies couroient de tous cOtes, sans en rencontrer
aucune : arririrent heurcusement d Chinon (;ii le Roi ctoit, ct
lui donncrent a»is de Icur arrivee et du s-ujct qui les amenoit.
Tiiutle mondcfat extrSinementsurpris d'un si long voyage fait
ai-cc tant de bonhcur." — P. Daniel.

Note 46, p. 20, col. 2. — The autumnal rains had beaten to the
earth.

"JVU OaUid perturbatius, nil spoliatius, nil egentius esset ;
sed neque cum milite melius agebatur, qui tametsi gaudebat
pr<eild, interim tamcn trucidebatur passim, dam utirque rex
civitales sua fuctionis principes in fide retincre studerct. Jgilur
jam Ciedium satictas utrujnque popiiluni erperat, jaiique tot damna
utrinque iilata era.tt, ut quisque generatim se opyressum, lacera-
tum, perditum ingentisceret, doloreque summo angcretiir, d'ls-
mniperetur, cruciarctur, ac per id animi quamvis obstinatissimi
ad pacem inclinarentur. Sanul urge.bat ad hoc reram omnium
inopia ; passim cnim agri deva.itati inculti mariebant, cum pra:-
sertim homines pro vit& tuendd., non arva colore sed bello serrire
necessario cogerentur. Ita tot urgentibus vialis, neuter a pace
abhorrebat, sed alter ab altera cam aut petere, vel adniittere turpe
putabat." — Polijuore Virgil,

The effect of this contest upon England was scarcely leas
ruinous. " In the last year of the victorious Henry V. there
was not a sufficient number of gentlemen left in England to
carry on the business of civil government.

" But if the victories of Henry were so fatal to the popula-
tion of his country, the defeats and disasters of the succeeding
reign were still more destructive. In the 25th year of this
war, the instructions given to the cardinal of Winchester and
other plenipotentiaries appointed to treat aliout a peace,
authorise them to represent to those of France " that there
haan been moo men slayne in these wars for the title and
claimc of the coroune of France, of oon nacion and other,
than been at this daye in both landys, and so much christiene
blode shed, that it is to grete a sotow and an orrour to think
or here it." — Henry. Rymcr's Fitdera.

Note 47, p. 20, col. 2. — Fastolffe''s better fate prevail'd.

Dunois was wounded in the battle of Herrings, or Rouvrai
Sain'-Uenys.

N TE 48, p. 21, col. 1. — To die for him whom I have lined to
serve.

Tanneguy du Chitel had Siived the life of Charles when
I aris was seized by the liurgundians. Lisle Adam, a man
riOted for ferocity even in that age, wa.s admitted at midnight
inio the city with eight hundred horse. The partisans of
Burgundy were under arms to assist them, and a dreadful
slaughter of the Armagnacs ensued. Du Cbilol, then gov-
ernor of the Bastile, being unable to restrain the tumult, ran
to the Louvre, and carried away the Dauphin in his shirt, in
order to secure him in his fortress, — Rupin.

Note 49, p. 21, col. I. — To rcjich the o'crhanging fruit.

Hifli favors like as fi;-trecs are
That grow upon the sides of rocks, where Ihey
Who reach thoir fruit adventure must so far
As lo hazard their deep d(jwnfall. — Daniel.

Note 50, p. 21, col. I. — j? banish'd man. Damns!

De Serres says, " The king was wonderfully discontented
for the departure of Tanneguy de Chastel, whom he culled
lather ; a m:in beloved, and of amiable conditions. Hut there
was no remedy. Ho had given the chief stroke to John Bur-
gongnc. So likewise he protested without any (lifllculty, lo
retire himself wliilhersocvcr hia master should conimund
him."

Note 51, p. 21, col. 1. — .... Richemont, who down the Loire
Sends the black carcass of his strangled foe.

Kichemont caused De Giac to be strangled in his bed, and
thrown into the Loire, to punish Ibe negligence that had occa-
sioned him to bo defeated by an inferior force at Avraiiches.
The constable had l.iid siege to St. James de Beuvron, a place
strongly garrisoned by the English. He had been promised a
convoy of money, which De Gi-ic, who had the management
of the treasury, purposely detained to mortify the constable.
Kichemont openly accused the treasurer, and revenged him-
self thus violently. After this, he boldly declared that he
would serve in the same manner any person whatsoever that
should endeavor to engross the king's favor. The Camus of
Beaulieu accepted De Giac's place, and was by the consta-
ble's means assassinated in the kind's oresence.

Note 52, p. 21, col. 1. — Whose dcatii my arm avenged.

" The duke of Orleans was, on a Wednesday, the feast-day
of pope St. Clement, assassinated in Paris, about sever
o'clock in the evening, on his return from dinner. The mur-
der was committed by about eighteen men, who had lodget^
at an hotel having for sign the image of our Lady, near the
Porte Barbette, and who, it was afterwards discovered, had
for sevenil days intended this assassination.

On the Wednesday before mentioned, they sent one named
Seas de Courteheu/.e, valet de chanibre to the king, and one
of their accomplices, to the duke of Orleans, who had gone to
visit the queen of France at an hotel which she had lately
purchased from Montagu, grand master of the king's house-
hold, situated very near the Porte Barbette. She had lain in
there of a child, which had died shortly after its birth, ant
had not then accomplished the days of her purification.

Seas, on his seeing the duke, said, by way of deceiving him,
" My lord, the king sends for you, and you must instantly
hasten to him, for he has business of great importance lo you
and him, which he must communicate to you." The duke, on
hearing Ibis message, was eager to obey the king's orders
although the monarch knew nothing of the matter, and imme-
diately mounted his mule, attended by two esquires on one
horse, and four or five valetb on foot, who followed behind
bearing torches ; hut his other attendants made no haste to
follow him. He had made this visit in a private manner, not-
withstanding at this time he bad within the city of Paris
six himdred knights i.nd esquires of his retinue, and at his
expense.

On his arrival at the Porte Barbette, the eighteen men, all
well and secretly armed, were waiting for him, anil were lying
in ambush un<ler shelter of a penthouse. The night was
pretty dark, and as they sallied out against him, one cried out,
" Put him to death '. " and gave him such a blow on the wrist
with his battle-axe as severed it from his arm.

The duke, astonished at this attack, cried out, " I am the
duke of Orleans ! " when the a8sa.ssins continuing their blows,
answered, " You are the person we were locking for." So
many rushed on him that he was struck off his mule, and his
scull was split that his brains were dashed on the pavement.
They turned him over and over, and massacred him that he
was very .»oon completely dead. A young esquire, a German
by birth, who had been his page, was murdered with him :
seeing his master struck to the ground, he threw himself on
his body to protect him, bu* in vain, and be suffered for his
generous courage. The horse which carried the two es((uires
that preceded the duke, seeing so many armed men advance,
began to snort, and when he passed them set out on a gallop,
so that it was some time before he could be checked.

When the esquires had slopped their horse, they saw their
lord's mule fidlowing them full gallop: having caught him,
they fancied the duke must have fallen, and were bringing it

G8

NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC.

back by the bridle ; but on tlicir arrival wliere their lord liiy,
llicy were men;iced by the assassins, thut if they did not in-
stantly depart lliey should share liis f.ite. Seeing their lord
had been thus basely murdired, they hastened to the hotel of
the queen, crying out. Murder! Those who had killed the
duke, in their turn, bawled out, Fire ! and they had arranged
their plan that while some were assassinating the duke,
others were to set fire to their lodgings. Some mounted on
horseback, and the rest on foot made off as they could, throw-
ing behind them broken glass and sharp points of iron to
prevent their being pursuc^d.

Report said that many of them went the back way to tlie
hotel d'Artois, to their master the duke of Burgundy, who had
eonunanded them to do this deed, as he afterwards publicly
confessed, to inform him of the success of their murder; when
instantly afterward they withdrew to places of safety.

'I'he chief of these assassins, and the condni'tor of the busi-
ness, was one called llollct d'.\uctonville, a Norman, whom
the duke of Orleans had a little before deprived of his oflice
of commissioner of taxes, which the king had given to him at
tlie request of the late duke of Burgundy : from that time the
said Kollet had been considering how he could revenge him-
self on the duke of Orleans. His other accom[plices were
William Courteheuze and Seas Courteheuze, before men-
tioned, from the country of Guines, John de la Motte, and
others, to the amount of eighteen.

Within half an hour the household of the duke of Orleans,
hearing of this horrid murder, made loud complaints, and
with great crowds of nobles and others hastened to the fatal
Bjiot, where they found him lying dead in the street. His
knights and esquires, and in general all bis dependants, made
grievous lamentations, seeing him thus wounded and dis-
figured. With many groans they raised the body and carried
it to the hotel of llie lord de Kie'.ix, marshal of France, which
was hard by; and shortly afterward the body was covered
with a white pall, and conveyed most honorably to the
Guillemins, where it lay, as being the nearest church to where
the nturder had been committed.

.Soon afterward the king of Sicily, and ninny other princes,
knights and esquires, having heard of this foul murder of the
only brother of the king of France, came with many tears to
visit the body. It was put into a leaden coffin, and the
monks of the church, with all the late duke's household,
watched it all night, saying prayers, and singing psalms over
it. On tlie morrow his servants found the hand which had
been cut off, and collected much of the brains that had been
scattered over the street, all of which were enclosed in a
leaden case and placed by the coffin.

The whole of the princes who were at Paris, except the
king and bin children, namely, the king of Sicily, the dukes
of Berry, Burgundy, and Bourbon, the mar(|uis di| Pont, the
counts de Nevers, de Clermont, de Vendome, de St. Pol, de
Danniiartin, the constable of France, and several others,
having assembled with a large body of the clergy and nobles,
and a multitude of the citizens of Paris, went in a body to
the church of the Guilhmiins. 'J'hen the principal ofHcers of
the late duke's household look the body and bore it out of the
church, with a great number of lighted torches carried by the
es<piires of the defunct. On each side of the body were in
due order, uttering groans and shedding tears, the king of
Sicily, the dukes of Berry, Burgundy, and Bourbon, each
holding a corner of the pall. After the body followed the
other princes, the clergy and barons, according to their ranks,
recommending his soul to his Creator; and thus they pro-
ceeded with it to the church of the Cclestines. When a most
solemn service bad been i)er(brmed, the body was interred in
a beautiful chapel he himself had founded and built. After
the service all the princes, and others who had attended it,
returned to their homes. — Monstrelet, vol. i. p. 192.

NoTi; 53, p. 21, col. 1. — TVken the Burgundian faction filled
thy streets
With carnage.

About four o'clock on the 12th day of June, the populace
of Paris rose to the amount of about sixty thousand, fearing
(as they said) that the prisoners would be set at liberty, al-
though the new provost of Paris and other lords assured them
to tlie contrary. They were armed with old mallets, hatchets,

staves, and other disorilerly weapons, and ))araded through the
streets shouting, " Long live the king and the duke of Bur-
gundy 1 " toward the dift'erent prisons in Paris, namely, the
Palace, St. INIagloire, St. Martin des Champs, the Cbatelet,
the Temple, and to other places wherein any prisoners were
confined. They forced open all their doors, and killed Chepier
anil Chcpiere, with the whole of the prisoners, to the amount
of sixteen hundred or thereabouts, the principal of whom
were the count de Armagnac, constable of France, master
Henry de Marie, chancellor to the king, the bislio{)s of Cou-
tances, of Bayeux, of Evrcux, of Senlis, of Salutes, the count
de Grand-Pre, Itaymonnet de la Guerre, the abbot de .St.
Conille de Compiegne, sir Hector do Cbartres,sir Enguerrand
de Marcoignet, Chariot Poupart, master of the king's ward-
robe, the mendiers of the courts of justice and of the treasury,
and in general all they could find: among the number were
several even of the Burgundian |iarty confined for debt.

In this massacre several women were kill<;d,and left on the
spot where they had been put to death. This cruel butchery
lasted until ten o'clock in the morning of the following day.
Those confined in the grand Chatelet, having arms, defended
themselves valiantly, and slew many of the populace ; but on
the morrow by means of fire and smoke they were con(|uered,
and the mob made many of them leap from the battlements of
the towers, when they were received on the points of the
spears of those in the streets, and cruelly mangled. At this
dreadful business were present the new provost of Paris, sir
John de Luxembourg, the lord de Fosseaux, the lord de
I'Isle-Adam, the vidame of Amiens, the lord de Chevreuse,
the lord do Cbaslellus, the lord de Cohen, sir James de Har-
court, sir Eniond de Lombers, the lord d'Auxois, and others,
to the amount of upward of a thousand combatants, armed
and on horseback, ready to defend the murderers should there
be any necessity. Many were shocked and astonished at such
cruel conduct ; but they dared not say any thing except,
" Well, my boys ! " 'J'he bodies of the constable, the chan-
cellor, and of Raymonnet de la Guerre were strijjped naked
tied together with a cord, and dragged for three days by the
blackguards of Paris through the streets ; the body of the
constable had the breadth of two fingers of his skin cut otT
crosswise, like to a bend in hi^aldry, by way of derision :
and they were thus publicly exposed quite naked to the sight
of all ; on the fourth day they were dragged out of Paris
on a hurdle, and buried with the others in a ditch called la
Louviere.

Notwithstanding the great lords after this took much pains
to pacify the populace, and remonstrated with them, that they
ought to allow the king's justice to take its regular course
against oftenders, they would not desist, but went in great
crowds to the houses of such as had favored the Armagnacs,
or of those whom they disliked, and killed them without
mercy, carrying away all they could find. In these limes it
was enough if one man hated another at Paris, of whatever
rank he might be, Burgundian or not, to say, " There goes an
Armagnac," and be was instantly put to death without further
inquirv being made. — Monstrelet^ vol. v. p. 20.

To add to the tribulations of these times the Parisians again
assembled in great nund)crs, as they had before done, and went
to all the prisons in Paris, broke into them, and put to death
full three hundred prisoners, many of whom had been con-
fined there since the last butchery. In the number of those
murdered were sir James de Mommor, and sir Louis de
Corail, chamberlain to the king, with many nobles and
churchmen. They then went to the lower court of the bas-
tille of .St. Anthony, and demanded that six prisoners, whom
they named, should be given up to them, or they would attack
the place : in fact, they began to pull down the wi'll of the
gate, when the duke of Burgundy, who lodged near the bas-
tille, vexed to the heart at such proceedings, to avoid worse,
ordered the prisoners to be delivered to them, if any of their
leaders would promise that they should be conducted to the
Chatelet prison, and suffered to be punished according to their
deserts by the king's court of justice. Upon this they all
departed, and by way of glossing over their promise, they led
the prisoners near to the Chatelet, when they put them to
death, and stripped them naked. They then divided into
several large companies and paraded the streets of Paris, en-
tering the houses of many who had been Armagnacs, plun-
dering and murdering all without mercy. In like manner aa

NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC.

69

bclbro, when they met any person lliey disliked lie wuti sliiin
instantly; and their prineipal leader ua8 Ca|i|ieluche, the
liangnian of the city of I'aris.

The duke ot' Burgundy, uLirinei! at these insurrections, sent
for some of the chief citizens, with whom he lemnnstratcd on
the consequences these disturbances might liave. The citi-
zens excused themselves t'ron> being any way concerned, and
said they were much grieved to witness them : they added,
they were all of the lowest rank, and had thus riseii to pillage
the more wealthy ; and Ihey reijuired the duke to provide a
remedy by employing these men in his wars. It was then
proclaimed, in the names of the king and the duke of Bur-
gundy, under pain of death, that no person should tumultu-
ously assemble, nor any more murders or pillage take place ;
but that such as had of late risen in the insurrection should
prepare themselves to march to the sieges of Jlontlehery and
Marcoussi, now held by the king's enemies. The commonalty
made reply, that they would cheerfully do so if they hud
proper captains appointed to lead tlicin.

Within a few days, to avoid similar tumults in Paris, six
thousand of the populace were sent to Monllebery under tho
command of the lord de Cohen, sir Walter de Uuppes and sir
Walter Kaillart, with a certain number of men at arms, and
store of cannon and animunition sullicient for a siege. These
knights led them to Moiithhery, where they made a sharp
attack on the Dauphiuois within the castle.

The duke of liurgundy, after I heir departure, arrested
several of their accomplices, and the principal movers of the
late insurrection, some of whom he caused to be beheaded,
others to be hanged or drowned in the Seine ; even their
leader Cappeluche, the hangman, was beheaded in the mar-
ket-place. When news of this was carried to the Parisians
who had been sent to Montlehery, they marched back to
Paris to raise another rebellion, but the gates were closed
against them, so that they were forced to return to the siege.

Moiistrelet, vol. v. p. 47.

To what is it owing that four centuries should have made
so little dilTerence in the character of the Parisians.'

Note 54, p. 21, col. 2. — He will retreat

To distant Daupliiny.

"Charles, in despair of collecting an army which should
dare to approach the enemy's entrenchments, not only gave
the city of Orleans for lost, but began to entertain a very dis-
mal prospect with regiird to the general state of his atiairs,
lie saw that the country in which he had hitherto, with great
ditficulty, subsisted, would he laid entirely open to the inva-
sion of a powerful and victorious enemy, and he already
entertained thoughts of retiring with the remains of his
forces into Languedoc and Daupliiny, and defending himself
as long as possible in those remote provinces. Hut it was
fortunate for this good prince, that as he lay under the do-
minion of the fair, the women whom ho consulted had the
spirit to support his sinking resolution in this desperate ex-
tremity. Mary of Anjou, his ([ueen, a princess of great
merit and prudence, vehemently opposed this measure, which
she foresaw would discourage all his partisans, and serve as a
general signal for deserting a prince who seemed himself to
despair of success: his mistress too, the fair Agnes Porel,
who lived in entire amity with the queen, seconded all her
remonstrances." — Hume.

L'unfail honnrur d la belle .Sgnis Sorel, Demoiselle de Tnu-
raine, maitrcsse de ce Prince, d'avoir bcaucoup contrihiii d
I'encouraner en cetle occasion. On luffifait eel konncur princi-
paUinent au sujet d'un quatrain rapportc par Saint Gelais,
comne aiant elifait par le Roi Francois I. d I'/iunneur de cette
Demoiselle.

Plus de louange el d'hunncur la mcrile.
La cause Hunt de France recouvrer.
Que ce que pent dedans un Cloitre ouvrer

Clause JVonnain, ou bicn devot Hermite. — P. Daniel.

Note 55, p. 21, col. 2. — On a May morning deck'd with fiowcrs.

Here in this first race you shall sec our kings hut once a
year, the first day of May, in their chariots deckt with flowres
and greene, and drawn by four oxen. Whoso hath occasion
to treat with them let him secke them in their chambers.

amidst their delights. Let him talke of any matters of state,
be sli:ill be sent to the Maire. — De Serres.

I'liller calls this race "a chain of idle kings, well linked
togellier, who gave themselves over to pleasure privately,
ni;ver coming abroad, but onely on .May-day tlioy showed
themselves to tho people, riding in a chariot, adorned with
flowers, and drawn with oxen, slou) cattcl, but j;uod enough
far so luzy luggat;e.'^ — Holy }Varre.

Ccs Rois hideuz en longut larbe cspesse.

En lonfTs cheveuz, omez, presse sur presse,

De ckaisnes d'or et de canjuans gravei,

Hauls dans un char en Iriumphe elecez,

Vnefais I'an scferunt voir en pompe

Eiijlez d^ uH fard qui le vulgaire Irompe. — Ronsard.

Note 56, p. 21, col. 2. — And these long locks will not dis-
grace thee then.

I^ong hair was peculiar to the kings in the first ages of the
French monarchy. When Fredegonda li.ad muithered Clovis
and thrown him into tlie river, the fishermen w ho found his
body knew it by the long hair. — Mezeruy.

At a later period the custom seems to have become general.
Pasquier says, " lors de monjciine aage nul n'cstoil tondu,fors
les moines. Mvint par mesadrenture que le roy Franfois pre-
mier de cc nom, ayant esle furtuitcment blessc d la teste d'un
tizon, par le capitainc Lorges, sieur de Montgoumrry, Irs mrdf-
cinsfarciit d'adcis de la tondrc, Dcpuis U ne portu plus longs
chcreiiT, estant le premier de nos roys, qui par un sinistre augnre
degenera de ccstc venerable ancicnnetc. Sur son ciemplc, les
princes prcmicrcmcnt, puis les gcntilshommcs, el finalctncnt tons
les suhjccti se voulureni former, il nefnt pas que les Prestrcs ne
sc mrissent de ccsle parlie. Sur la plus grande parlie du regne
de Fraiigois premier, et deuant, chacun porloil longuc chcvelurc,
et barbe ras, oil maintenani chacun est tondu, et portc longue
barbc."

Note C>7, p. 22, col. 1. — TTiy mangled corse leaves to the winds
of heaven.

Le Viscomte de A''arbonnc y pent aussi, et porta la peine de sa
tcmcritc, qui avoit etc une dcs principals causes de la pcrte de la
buttaille. Le due de Bctfort aiant fait, chcrcher smi corps, le
fit ecarteler et pcndre a un gibet, puree qu'il passoit pour avoir
etc complice de la mart du due de Bourgogne. — P. Daniel.

Note 58, p. 22, col. 1. — Bretagne's unfaithful chief

Leagues with my foes, and Richcmont, &.c.

Richemont has left an honorable name, though he tied a
prime minister up in a sack and threw him into the river.
For this ho had a royal precedent in our king John, but
Richemont did openly what the monarch did in the dark, and
there is some difference between a murderer and an execu-
tioner, even though the executioner be a volunteer. " /i
mcrita sa grace (says Daniel), par les services qu'il rendil au roi
contrc les Anglois, malgre ce prince mSme. Ilful un des prin-
cipnui autrurs de la reforme de la milicc Fran^oisc, qui prn-
duisit la Iranquillitc de la France et les grands victoires dont cite
fust suirie. L'autorite qu'il avoit par sa charge de connctable,
jointr d safiTmeti naturelle, lui donna moyen de tenir la main d
I'obsrrration dcs ordonnances publiees par le roi pour la disci-
pline militaire ; et les cramples de sevcrile qu'il fit d eel cgard,
hiifirnitdonnerlc surnom de justicier. F.tant devenu due de
Breliigne, qurlques Seigneurs de sa Cour lui conseillerent de se
demrltre de sa charge dr connctable, comme d'unc (lignite qui
etuit au drssnus de lui. II ne la voulut pas, et il faisoit porter
devant lui deux epces, I'une la pointe en haul, en qualiti de due
de Bretagite, el I'autre dans lefourreau le poinlr en bus, comme
connctable de France. Son motive pour conserver la charge lie
connctalilr, etoit, disoit il d'honorer duns sa vicillcsse une charge
qui I'aroit honore lui-mcmc dans un ase mains avanec. On le
pent compter au nombre des plu<! grands capilainrs que la France
ait nis d son service. II avoit beaucoup de religion, il etoit
liberal, aumonirr, bicnfaisant, et on ne pent guires lui reprorhcr
que la hauteur et la violence, dont il usa envers les trois
ministres,"

70

NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC.

Note 59, p. 22, col. 2. — IVcll might the English scoff.

Yet in tlie preceding ye:ir 1428, tlie English women liad
concerned llicmselves soniewliut curiously in tlic alFairs of
their rulers. "There was one Mistris Slokes with divers
others stout women of London, of good reckoning, wellup-
parelled, ciune openly to tlie upper parliament, and delivered
letters to the duke of Glocester, and to the archhisliops, and
to the other lords there present, containing matter of rehuke
and sharp reprehension of the duke of Gloccster, hecause he
would not deliver his wife Jaqueline out of her grievous im-
prisonment, heing then held prisoner hy the duke of Bur-
gundy, sutfering her there to remain so unkindly, and for his
public keeping hy him another adultresse, contrary to the law
of God, und the honourable estate of matrimony." — Stowc.

Note 60, p. 22, col. 2. — She fixed her eye on Charles.
Of this I may say with Scudery,

0 merceillc estomiante, et ilifficile d craire! —
Mais one iiuus rapportotis sur lafvij de VHistoire.

Marie, L. 2.
Tlic matter (says De Serres) was foiuid ridiculous hoth by the
king and his councell, yet must they make some triall. The
king takes upon him the habit of a countriman to be disguised :
this maid (being brought into the chamber) goes directly to
the king in this attire, and salutes him with so viodest a coun-
tenance, as if she had been bred up in court all her life. They
telling her that she was mistaken, she assured them it was
the king, although she had never scene him. She begins to
deliver unto him this new charge, which, she sayes, she had
received from the God of Heaven ; so as she turned the eyes
and minds of all men upon her."

Ce prince prit expres ce jour-ld un habit fort simple, ct se
vi£ta sans distinction dans lafoule dcs courtiians. Lafille entra
dans la chambre sans paroitre aticnnement etonnee, et qiioiqu,^
elle 7i' eilt jamais va le roi, clle lui addrcssa la parole, et Ini dit
d'un tonfernic, que Dieu I'envoyoit pour le secourir, pourfaire
lever le siege d' Orleans, et le conduire d Reims pour y Stre
sacre. Elle I'assura que les Anglois scroient chasses du Roy-
aume, et que sUls ne le quittoient auplutot, il Icur en prendroit
mal. — P. Daniel.

Note CI, p. 22, col. 2. — Crown thee anointed king.

The anointing was a ceremony of much political and mys-
tical importance. " King Henry III. of England, being de-
sirous to know what was wrought in a king by bis unction,
consulted by letter about it with that great schoUer of the age
Robert Grossetest bishop of Lincoln, who answered him
thus: — 'Quod antem in fine literm vestrw nobis mandas-
tis, videlicet quod intimaremus quid, unctionis sacramcntum
videatur adjicere regia dignitali, cum multi sint reges qui
iiullatenus unctionis muncra decorentur, noii est nostrie modicila-
tis complere hoc. Tamen non ignoramus quod regalis inunctio
sifTuum estprerogatirfB suscepfiunis septiforniis doni Sacratissi-
mi Pneumatis, quod septiformi munere trnetur rex inunctus
prircmineutijis non unctis regihas oinnes regias et regiminis sui
actiones dirigere ; ut videlicet non rommuniter sed eminenter et
heroici dono Timoris se prima, et drinceps, quantum inipso est,
suo regimini subjectos, ab omni coliiheat illicito ; dono Pietatis
defendat subrenial et subveniri facial vidua', pupillo, et genera-
liter omni oppresso ; duno Scienti.c leges justas ad regnum juste
rea-endum ponat, positas obscrvet et observari faciat, erroneas
destruat; dono Fortitudinis omnia regno adversantia repellat et
pro salute reipubticie mortem von timeat. .^d pnrdicta antem
prieccllenter airenda dono Concilii decorelur, quo nrlificialitir et
scientific ordo hujus mundi sensibilis edocetur ; deinde dono In-
tellectus, quo cwtus .^ngelici ordo dinoscitur. Tandem vera
dono Snpientiae, quo ad dilucidam cognitionem Dei pertingitur,
ut ad exemplar ordinis mundi et ordinis angclict secundum leges
(ti.ernas in O't.ema Dei ratione drscriptas, qnibus regit unnc-si-
talem creatune, rempuhlicam sibi subjeclam ordinabilitcr regat
tandem et ipse, .^djicit igitur regio! dignitali unctionis sacra-
mcntum quod rez unctus prre ccr.teris in suo genere debet, ut
vnetactum est, ez septiformi Spiritus munere, in omnibus suis
regiminis actibus, virtutibus div(nis et heroicis pollerc."

"And some other have conceived this anointing of such
efficacy, that, as in baptisme all former sinnes are wasbt awa/,

so also by this unction, us we see in tliat of Polyeuctus pa-
triarch of Constantinople, who doubted not but that tho
emperor John Tzimisces was cleerd, before Heaven, of the
death of I'hocas, thro' his being anointed emperor."

Svlden's 'lilies of Honor.
The legend of the Ampulla made this ceremony peculiarly
important in France. I ipiote the miracle from Uesmarcsts.
Clovis is on his knees waiting to be anointed by St. Reraigius.

Cepcndant le prelut attend les huiles saiiites.

Un Diacre les parte, etfuit un vain effort;

La foule impenetrable empesche son abord.

Du Pontife sacre la douce impatience,

Des mains et dc la voix veut en vain quHl s' avance.

J^ulnepeut diviser, par la force des bras,

De tant de corps pressez I'immobile ramas.

Le prince humble, d genoux, languissoit dans I'attente,

Mors qu^uue clarte paroisl plus eclatanle,

Esteint tous autres feux par su vive splendeur,

Et repand dans le temple une divine odeur.

Dans un air lumlneux une Colombe vole.

En son hec de coral tenant unefiole.

Elle apporle au prelal ce vase precieux,

Plein d' un baume sacre, rare present des Cieux. — Clovis.

Guillermus Brito says that the devil brake the viol of oil
which Remigius held in his hand ready to anoint Clovis, and
that the oil being so spilt, he obtained by prayer a supply of it
from heaven. — Selden.

Note G2, p. 22, col. 2. — The doctors of theology.

Ces paroles ainsi par elle dicles,lafist le roy remener kono-
rablement en son logis, et assemble son grand conscil, au quel
furent plusieurs prelats, chevaliers, escuyers et chefs de guerre,
avecques aucuns ducteurs en theologie en loix el en decret, qui
tous ensemble adviscrent qu'elle seroit iiitcrrogue pur les doc-
teurs, pour essayer si en elle se trouveroit cvidenle raison de
pouvnir accomplirce qu'elle disoit. Muis les docleurs la trove-
rent de tant honneste contenance, et tant sase en ses paroles, que
leur revelation faicte, on en tienl tres grand conle.

Diverses interrogaliuns lay furent faicles par plusieurs doc-
teurs et autres gens de grand estal, a quay elle respondit moult
hien, et par especial a un docleur Jacobin, qui lay dist, que si
Dieu vouloit que les Anglois s'en allassent, qu'il ne falloit point
de armes ; a quay elle respondit, qu'elle ne vouloit que pen de
gens qui combattroient, et Dieu donneroit la victoire.

History of the Siege of Orleans. Troyes, 1621.

In ihe Qesta Jnanme. OalliciB of Valerandus Varanius, one of
the counsellors makes a speech of seventy lines uj)on the
wickedness of women, mentioning Helen, Beersheba, Semir-
amis, Dalilah, Messalina, &c., as examples. The council are
influenced by bis opinion, and the Maid, to prove her mission,
challenges any one of them to a single combat.
Qu3 me stultitid, quh me levitate notandam
Creditis 0 patresl armis siforsitan, inquit,
.ipta minus videar, stricto procurrereferro
.Snnuite ; hccc nostri sint prima pericula martis.
St cuique vis tanta animo, descendat in o'quiB
Planiciem pugna: ; mihi si victoria cedat
Credite viclrici ; noster si vicerit hostis
Compcde vincta abeam, ct cunctis simfabula siBclis.

Note 63, p. 23, col. 2. — St. .Agnes' Chapel.

Hanc virginem cimtffit pascendo pecora in sncello quodam
vilissimo, ad declinandam phiviam obdormire : quo in tempore
visa est se in somnis a Deo, qui se iUi oslenderat, admoneri.
Jacobus Philippus Bergomensis de Claris mulieribus.

Joanna Gallica Puella, dum oves pascit, tempestate coocfa in
prnximum sacellum confugit, ihi obdonnicns liberandte Gallia:
mandutum divinitus accepit. — Bonfinius.

Ileroino' nobilissima .Joanna: Dare Lolheringcc vulgo Aurelia-
nensis Puellir. historia. .^uthore Joanne Hordal serenissimi
ducis Lotharingce consiliario. Ponti-Mussi. 1612.

Note 64, p. 23, col. 2. — .... Saint .Sgnes stood
Before mine eijes, such and so beautiful
.4.* irhen, amid the house of wickedness,

NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC.

71

The Power whom with such frroent love she served
yeiVd htr with glory,

Iiisanus judex earn nudum ad lupanar pertrahi jussit. ^f u6i
beata viriro vestibits ezula est, stutim criiie soluto, lanlam
capillis densitatnn ejus diviiia gratia concessit, nt melius illurum
fimbriis, quam vestibus tecta videratur. lutrogressa qaidem
JIgnes turpiludinis locum, Angeiam Domini pneparalum
incenit .- earn mot tanlo luminc perfudit, nt prtc magnitudine
splendoris, a ncmine conspict possft.

The exclamation of St. Agnes at the stako should not bo
omitted here. " Tlien Agnes, in the midst of the flames,
stretching out her liands, prayed unto the Lord, saying, ' I
bless thee, O Alniiglity Father ! who perniiltest me to come
unto tliee fearless even in the flames. For behold! what I
have believed, I see ; what I liave hoped, I possess ; what I
have desired, I embrace. Therefore I confess thee with
my lips, I desire thee with my heart, with my inmost
entrails ; I come to thee, the living and the true God ! "
The whole passage, as it stands in the .4ito Sanctorum, is very
fine. Tunc yicurius Jispasius nomine, jussit in conspcclu om-
nium i<rnem copiosum acceitdi, et in medium cam pracepit jnctari
fiammarum. Quod cumfuisset impltlan>,statim in duas paries
diviscB suntJUimmit, et hinc atque illinc sedtlwsos populus exure-
bant, ipsam aulem B. Agnen pcndus in nullo conlingcbat incen-
dium. Eo magis hoc non virlutibus divinis, sed maleficiis
depulanles, ilabanl /remit us inter se populi, et injinitos clamores
ad calum. Tunc B, A_;-nes expendcns manus suas in medio
iirnii his verbis orationcm fudit ad Dominum : Omnipolnis,
adorande, colende, tremendr. Pater Domini nostri Jesu Chrisli,
benedico tc quia pcrjilium tuum unigenitum evasi minas homi-
nuin impwrum et spurcitias diaboli ivipoltuta transivi. Kcce et
nunc per Spiritum Sanctum rorc ca:lesti pcrfasa sum ; focus
juxta me morUur, Jlantma diiiiditur, et ardor incendii hujus ad.
COS a qutbus miiustrulur, rcfunditur. Benedico te pater omni-
potent, qui etiam per flammas, intropidam me ad te venire
permittis. Ecce jam quod credidi video, (juod speravi jam
tenco, quod concupivi complector. Te igitur labiis confiteor,
te corde, te totis visceribus concupisco. Ecce ad te venio
vivum et veruni Deum !

Acta Sanct, torn. ii. p. 352, Jan. 21.
Vita S. Agnelis. Jiuct. S. Amltrosio.

They have a legend in Cornwall that St. Agnes " e9ca])ed
out of the prison at Rome, and taking shipping, landed at St
Piran Arwothall, from whence she travelled on foot to what
is now her own parish. But being several times tempted by
the Devil on her way, as often as she turned about to rebuke
him, she turned him into a stone, and indeed there are still
lo be seen on the Downs, between St. Piran and St. Agnes,
several large moor stones, pitched on end, in a straiglit line,
about a quarter of a mile distant one from llie otlier, doul)tless
put there on some remarkalile account." There lived then
in that part of the country a famous Wrath or Giant, by name
Bolster, of that ilk. lie got hold oftlie Suint, and obliged her
to gather up the stones on his domain ; she carried them in
three apron-fulls to the top of the hill, and made with them
three great heaps, from which the hill is now called, some-
times Carne Brcanich, sometimes St. Agnes' Beacon. At last
this Giant or ffrat/t attempted to seduce her ; she pretended
to yield, provided he would fill a hole which she showed him
with his blood: he agreed to this, not knowing that the hole
opened into the sea ; she thus cunningly bled him to death,
and then tumbled him over the cliff. This they still call the
fVrath's Hole. It is on the top of the cliff, not far from St.
Agnes' chapel and well ; and, enlarging as it goes downward,
opens into a cave fretted-in by the sea, and, from the nature
of the stone, streaked all over with bright red streaks like
blood. After this she lived some time here, and then died,
having first built her chapel and her well. The water of this
well is excellent ; and the pavement, they tell you, is colored
with her own blood, and the more you rub it, the more it
shows, — such being, indeed, the nature of the stone. She
'ikewise left the mark of her foot on a rock, not far from it,
still called St. Agnes' fool, which they tell you will fit a foot
of any size ; and indeed It is large enough so to do. These
monkish stories caused a great resort here in former days, and
many cures are pretended to have been done by the water of
this well, so blest by her miraculous blood." — Policliclc^s
Histonj of Cornwall, i. 176-7. — N.

St. Agnes, St. Catharine, and St. Margaret, were thosaiQta
more particularly reverenced by the Maid of Orleans.

Note 65, p. 24 col. 1. — IFas silence to my sotU

Through the scene are faintly heard
Sounds that are silence to the mind.

Charles Lloyd.

Note 66, p. 26, col. 1. — Effaced the hauberk''s honorable inarks.

jlfm d'empccher Ics impressions que ce treiUis de fcr devait
aisser sur la peau, ou avail soin de se matelasser en dtssous.
Malgre ces precautions cepcndant il en laissait encore ; ces mar-
ques s^appclldient camois, et on les faisait disparaitre par le
bain. — Le Orand. .

Note 67, p. 26, col 1. — Then, bow^d her to the sword qf mar-

tijrdom.

Such is the legend of St. Katharine, princess of Alexandria,
wiiose story lias been pictured upon sign-posts and in churches,
but whose memory has been preserved in this country longer
by the ale-bouse than by the altar. The most extravagant
perha|)s of Dryden's plays is upon this subject. In the hrst
edition, I had, ignorantly, represented Katharine as dying
upon the wheel, and the descri|)tion of her sufferings was far
too minute. Dryden has committed the last fault in a far
greater degree ; the old martyrologies particularize no cruelties
more revolting to the reader than he has detailed in the speech
of Maximin when he orders her to execution.

From a passage in the .Jerusalem Conquistada it should seem
that St. Katharine was miraculously betrothed to her heavenly
spouse. As the crusaders approach Jerusalem, they visit the
holy places on their way ;

Qual visila el lugar con llanto tierno,
Donde la hermosa virgen Cuterina

Se desposo con el Esposo eterno,
La Angelica Rachel siendo madrina ;

Aquel Espnso, que el nevado invierno
Se cuhrio con escarcha matutina,

El que tiene los ojos de palomas

Y del labia de lirio vierte aromas. — Lope de Vega.

The marginal note adds La Virgen fue Madrina en los despo
rios de Caterina y Christo.

Of St. Margaret, the otlier favorite Saint of the Maid, I
find recorded liy Bergoiiicnsis, that she called the pagan
Pra^fect an impudent dog, that she was thrown into a dungeon,
wliere a horrible dragon swallowed her, that she crossed her-
self, upon wliieb the dragon immediately burst and she came
out safe, and that she saw tlie devil standing in the corner
like a black man, and seized him and threw him down.

Absurd as this legend is, it once occasioned a very extra-
ordinary murder. A young Lombard, after hearing it, prayed
so earnestly for an opiiortunity of fighting with the devil like
St. Margaret, that he went into the fields in full expectation
that his desire would be gratified. A hideous old dumb
woman came by : he mistook her for the tempter ; her in-
articulate noises confirmed him in this opinion, and he knocked
her down and trampled upon her. The poor wretch died ol
her bruises ; but a miracle was wrought to save her murderer,
in consideration that his madness was a pious madness, and
before she died, she spoke to excuse the mistake. This tale
is told in that strange collection of ludicrous stories upon re-
ligious sulijects, the Pia Hdaria. The authority referred to
is Pelr. Rausani Hist. lib. 35.

Note 68, p. 26, col. 2. — The sacred sword,

Puella petiit gladium, quern divinitus uti aiebat, erat facta
certitir in templo diva: Catherimr. in Turonibus, inter antiqun
donaria pendcre. Miratus Carolus, gladium inquiri, ac invcn-
tum prutmus Puella; affirri ju.^sit. — Pohjdnre Virgil.

Roland, or rather Orlando, for it is Ariosto who has im-
mortalized him, was buried with Durindana nt his side, and
his horn Olifant nt his feet. Cbnrlemain also had his good
sword .loyeusc buried with him. He w.as placed in his sep-
ulchre on a golden throne, crowned and habited in his im

Ti

NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC.

perial robes, thoujfh a ciUcc was next his skin ; one liand hold
a f;lol)e of gold, the other rested on the (lospels, wliicli were
lying on his knees. His shield and sceptre were hung oii-
posite to him, on the side of the sepulchre, which was filled
with perfumes and spices, and then closed. Tizuna was buried
with the Cid, no living man being worthy to wield that sword
with which the Campeador, even after death, had triumphed ;
and which had been miraculously half drawn from the scabbard
to avenge the insult offered by a Jew to his corpse.

Note G9, p. 26, col. 2. — Tliey partook the feast,

Cette cirimonie chei Us grands s'annongait au son du cor, ou
au son iViinc cloche ; coutumc qiii subsiste encore dans les ccmvens
et les 7naisons npulcntes, pour announcer le convert et le dtner.
,^pres le service des viandcs, c'est-d-dirc. apris ce que nous up-
pellons entrees, rili et entremets, on sortait de table pourse lavrr
les mains une sccondefiiis, comme chci le Romains de qui parait
Stre venu cct usage. Les domestiqaes desservaient pendant cc
terns ; Us enlevaient une des nappes et apporlaient les cuvfitiircs
{qu'on nommait epices) et les vins composes. .4 ce moment, fail
pour la gaiete, commengaient les decis plaisans ctjoijeut prupiis,
car dans ce ban vieux terns on aimait heaucoup de rire. C'ctait
alors que les mcnctriers venoient reciter leurs fabliaux, lorsqu'on
admcttait leur presence. — Le Orand.

Note 70, p. 26, cnl. 2. — Or luscious with metheglin mingled rich.

11 y avail plusieurs sortes de ces vins prepares qu'on servait
apris les viandes. 1. Les Vins cuits, qui sont encore en usage
dans quelques provinces, et qui ont conserve le m6me iiom. 2.
Cent aicxquels on ajoutait le sue de quelque fruit, tels que le
Moid, /ait avec du jus de mure. 3. Ceuz qu'on assaisonnait
avec da miel, comme le Nectar, le Medon, S[c. 4. Ccui OTJtl'un
faisait infaser des ptantes mcdieinales ou aromntiques, et qui
prenaient leur nam de ces plantes, Vins d'Absinthe, de Myrthe,
d'Alotjs, &,c. Lc Roman de Florimmit les appclle Vins herhez.
5. F.nfn ceuz dans Irsquels, outre le miel, il entruit des epices.
On appellait ces derniers du nom general de Pimens. Cetoient
les plus estimcs dc tous. JVus auteu rs n'en parlent qu'avec delices.
II eilt manqui quehpic chose d une fete ou d un repas, si on n'lj
edt point servi da Piment ■■ et I'an on donnait memc aut moincs
dans les couvens d certains jours de I'annee. — Lc Orand,

Note 71, p. 2G, col. 2. — the youth

Of Cornwall.
Sir Tristram du Lyones.

Note 72, p. 27, col. 1. — and he who struck

The dolorous stroke.
Sir Balin le Sauvage.

Note 73, p. 27. col. 1 . — Like that divinest Tuscan.
Ariosto.

Note 74, p. 27, col. 2. — Thou canst not with thy golden belt
put on
An honorable name.

Du proverbe Bonne renommee vaut mieuz que ceinture doree.

Lisant un arrest avcim qui est encores pour lejoiird'huy inscre
OALX registres du Chastelet de Paris, j'eslimay qu'en ce proverbe
il y avoit une notable sentence, et une longuc anciennetc tout en-
semble. Car par arrest qui est du28dejuinl4;i0,ilestporl6
en tennes erprcs que deffenses sont faites d toutcs fcmmes amou-
reuses, files dc joye, ct paillardes de ne porter rohbes d collets rcn-
versei, queues, ne celntures dorers, boutonniers d leurs chaperons,
sur peine de confiscation et amende, et que les huissiers de parle-
ment, commissaires et sergents du Chastelet qui les trouveroient,
eussent d les mener prisonnieres.

j9h surplus {je diray cecy en passant) d la mienne volont6 que
ceuz qui donnerent eest arrest eussent tournc la chance, et que non
seuXement ces ceintures dorees, aiiis en toutes autres dorures, ct
affliquets, ils eussent fait def^ences d tnutrs femmes d'honncur
d'emporter, sur peine d'estre declarees putains ; car il n'y auroit
point plus prompt moyen que cestuy, pour bannier le superjluite
et bombance des dames. — Pasquier,

Note 75, p. 28, col. 1. — J knew myself,

Hmc igitur Janna Pulcella virgo, cum magnani gloriam in
armis esset adepta, et regnum Franeorum magnd, ex parte deper-
ditum, e manilms Anglorum pugnando eripuisset, in sua flurcnle
(jctate cunstUuta, non snUtiii se morituravi, sed et genus suce m&r~
tis cunctis prixdirit. — Bergomensis.

Note 70, p. 28, col. ]. — There is a ]

There is a path which no fowl knoweth, and which the vul-
ture's eye hath not seen : the lion's whelps have not trodden
it, nor the fierce lion passed by it. — ,/ob, .\xviii. 7, 8.

Note 77. p. 28, col. 1 . is Ihcy did hear the loud alarum bell.

" In sooth the estate of France was then most miserablo.
There appeared nothing but a horrible face, confusion, poverty,
desolation, solitarinesse and feare. The lean and bare la-
bourers in the country did terrific even theeves themselves,
who had nothing lift them tospoile but the carkasses of these
poorc miserable creatures, wandi'ring up and down like ghostes
(irawne out of tlieir graves. The least furmes and hamlets
were fortified by these robbers, English, Bourguegnons and
French, every one striving to do his worst : all men of war
were well agreed to spoile the countryman and merchant.
Even the cattell, accustomed to the larume bell, the signe of Vie
enemy's approach, would run Jiome of tltcnisclves without any
guide by this accustomed misery."

This is the perfect description of tliose times, taken out of
the lamentations of our ancestors, set down in the original,
says De Scrres. But amidst this horrible calamity, God did
comfort both the king and realme, for about the end of the
yeere, he gave Charles a goodly sonne by queen Mary his
wife."

Note 78, p. 28, col. 2. — JVas cls a pilgrim.

O my people, hear my word : make you ready to the battle,
and in those evils, be even as pilgrims upon the earth. —
2 Esdras, xvi. 40.

Note 79, p. 28, col. 2. — Cast the weak nature off!

Let go from thee mortal thoughts, cast away the burdens of
man, put oft' now the weak nature,

And set aside the thoughts that are most heavy unto thee,
and haste thee to flee from those times. — 2 Esdras, xiv. 14, 15.

Note 80, p. 29, col. 2. — Worthy a happier, not a better love.
Digna minus miscro, non meliore viro. — Ovid.

Note 81, p. 29, col. 2. lind I must put away all mortal

thoughts.
— 2 Esdras, xiv. 14.

Note 82, p. 31, col. 1. — Ruin rush'd round us.

" To succeed in the siege of Orleans, the English first se-
cured the neighboring places, which might otherwise have
annoyed the besiegers. The months of August and September
were spent in this work. During that S|)ace they took Mehun,
Baugeiici, Gergeau, Clery, Sully, Jenville, and some other
small towns, and at last appeared before Orleans on the 12th
of October." — iJ«pin.

Note 83, p. 31, col. 2. — Soon sadden'd Orleans.

"The French king used every expedient to supply the city
with a garrison and provisions, and enable it to maintain a
long and obstinate siege. The lord of Gaucour, a brave and
experienced captain, was ajipointed governor. Many officers
of distinction threw themselves into the place. The troops
which they conducted were inured to war, and were deter-
mined to make t)ie most obstinate resistance: and even the
inhabitants, disciplined by the long continuance of hostilities,
were well qualified in their own defence, to second the efforts
of the most veteran forces. The eyes of all Europe were
turned towards this scene ; where, it was reasoiialily sup-
posed, the F'rench were to make their last stand for maintain-

NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC.

73

ing the indopnnJoiicoof thoir monarchy, and the rights of their
sovereign." — Hume.

Note 64, p. 31, col. 2. — The Sire ChaptUe.

This title was not disoriniinatcly used by tlio French.
Chupeile 19 sometimes styloii le sire, and sometimes (rfiitU'
homiiie (tc Beaiuise, l>y Daniel. Tlio same title was applied to
the Almighty, and to princes ; and Selden observes from
Pasquier, " Ihoaa ancient barons affected rather to be stilod
by the name of sire than baron, and the baron of Coucy
carried to that purpose this rithmo in his device :

Je ne suis roy ne prince aiissi,
Je suis Ic sire ile Coiicij."

Note So, p. 31, col. 2. — Can never wield Vie crucifii that hilts
His hallowed sword.

" At the creation of a knight of Rhodes a sword, with a
cross for the hill, was delivered to him in token that his valor
must defend religion. No bastard could be a knight hospi-
taller, from whose order that of Khodes was formed, except
a bastard to a prince, there being honor in that dishonor,
as there is light in the very spots of the moon."

Fuller's Ilistvrie of the Holy Wiirre.

Note 86, p. 31, col. 2. 9nd that young duke.

Alen^on.

Note 87, p. 31 , col. 2. — La Hire, the inerriest man.

" In the late warres in France between king Henry the fiflh
of England and Charles the seventh of France, the French
armie being in distresse, one cajilain La Hire, a Frenchman,
was sent to declare unto the said French king the estate and
affaires of the warre, and how for want of victuals, money,
and other necessaries, the French h:id lost divers townes and
hattailes to the English. The French king being disposed to
use his captaiiie familiarly, shewed him such thinges as him-
self was delighted in, as his buildings, his banquets, fuire
ladies, &.C., and then asked the c.iptaine how iioc liked them ;
' Trust me, sir,' quoth the caplaine, speaking his mind freely,
' I did never know any prince that more delighted himself
with his losses, than you doe with yours.' " — Stowe,

' La Hire trouva ung chapelain auquel il dit iju'il luy donnast
liastivemerit Vabsolution : et le chapelain luy dit qu'cl confessast
ses pesches. La Hire luy respondil qa'il n'auruit pas loisir, car
ilfalloit proviptement frapper sur I'cnneinij, et qu'il avoitfuict cc
que gens dc guerre out accoustunic defairc. Et lors La Hire fit
sa priire d Dieu en disant en sun Gascon, les mains joinctcs: —
' Dicu.je le prie que tu faces aujoiird'huy puur La l{ire autant
que tu vouldrois que La Hire fst puur toy, se il estuit Dieu, et
que tu fusses La Hire.' — £( il cuiduil trcs lien pricr et dire.

Chronique sans titre. Li: Brun dc Charmttles, t. i. p. 102.

There is an English epitaph, horrowed from those words
of the French captain.

Note 88, p. 31, col. 2. — the suburbs lay

One ample ruin.

"They pulled down all the most considerable buildings in
the suburbs, and among tho rest twelve churches and several
monasteries ; that the English might not make use of them in
carrying on the siege." — Rnpin. JHunstrelct.

Note 89, p. 33, col. 1. — jVk ^nore the merry viol's note iras
heard,

Tho instrument which most frequently served for an accom-
paniment to the harp, and which disputed the preeminence
with it in the early times of music in France, was the viol ;
and indeed, when reduced to four strings, and stript of the
frets with which viols of all kinds seem to have been furnished
till the Ifith century, it still holds tho first place among treble
instruments, under the denomination of violin.

The viol played with a bow, and wholly different from the
viclle, whose tones are produced by the friction of a wheel,
which indeed performs the part of a how, was very early in
favor with the inhabitants of France.

Bumey's History of Music.

10

Note 90, p. 32, col. I. — Call'd on Saint .Signan's name.

^t. Aignan was the tutelary saint of Orleans. Ile had mi-
raculously l)een chosen bishop of that city when Attila besieged
it. " Cumme les citoycns effruyez eurcnt rccours a leur prclat,
luy, sans sc soucier, pour le salut dc siens, sortit de la villc et
parla a Jittila. Mais ne I'ayant pu flcrhir, d se mit en priercs,
Jitfairc dcs processions, et porter par les rues les rcliques des
saints. Un prcstre s'etant vwcque, disant, que eela n'aroit dc
rein profile aux autres villes, tomba roidc mart sur la place, por-
tant : par ce moyen la peine de son insoiente temerite. Jipres
ttiutcs ches ehoses, il commamla aux habitans dc voir si le secours
n'arriiwit point ; ayant 6t6 rcpondu que non , il sc rcmet en pricres,
et puis leur fait mesnie commandement : mais n'appercevant point
encore de secours, pour la troisieme fois il se prostema a trrrc,
Ic.i yeuz et I'esprit vers le del. Se sentant ezaucc, il fait mon-
ter a la gucrite, et luy rapporte-t-on que Von ne voyoit ricn si non
une grosse nuce de poussiere, il assiiere que c'etoit le secours
d'.Mtius et de Teudo Roy des Ootlts, lesquels tardans a sc mon-
trer a I'armee d'Mlila, S. Jlignan fat divincmait transporte en
leur camp, et les advcrlit que tout estoit pirdu, s'ils attendoient au,
lendeniain. lis parurent aussi-tost, et furccrent .HttUa de lever
si hativcnient le siege, que plusieurs des siens se noyerent dans la
Loire, d'autrcs s'cntretuercnt avrc regret d'acoir perdu la villc.
Et non contcns de cctte victoirc, le puursuivirent si vivement avec
le Roy Mcrouec, qui sc vinl joindre a euz, qu'ils le defircnt en
battaiUe ran gee prcs dc Cli&hns, jonchant la campagne de 180,000
eadiwres."

Le nouvcau Parterre dcs ficurs des vies des Saints. Par P.
Ribadeneira, Andre du Val et Jean Baudoin. Lyons, 1G6G.

Note 91, p. 32, col. 2. — the treat,y ratified

At Troyes.
" By the treaty of Troyes, Charles was to remain in quiet
possession of the royal dignity and revenues. After his death
the crown, with all its rights and dominions, devolved to Henry
and his heirs. The imbecility of Chiirles was so great that he
could not appear in public, so that the queen and Burgundy
swore for him." — Hupin.

Note 92, p. 33, col. 1. — Salisbury, their watchful chief.

" The besiegers received succors in the very beginning of
the siege ; but the earl of Salisbury, who considered this en-
terprise as a decisive action for the king his master, and his
own reputation, omitted nothing to deprive the besieged of that
advantage. He run up round the city sixty forts. How great
soever this work might be, nothing could divert him from it,
since the success of the siege entirely depended upon it. In
vain would be have pursued his attack, if the enemies could
continually introduce fresh supplies. Besides, the season, now
far advanced, suggested to him, that he would be forced to pass
the winter in the camp, and during that time he liable to many
insults. Among the sixty forts, there were six much stronger
than the rest, U|)on the six principal avenues of the city.
The French could before w ith ease introduce convoys into the
place, and had made frequent use of that a(ivantage. But
after these forts were built, it was with extreme difficulty that
they could, now and then, give some assistance to the be-
sieged. Upon these six redoubts the general erected butteries,
which thundered against the walls." — Rapin,

Note 93, p. 33, col. 1. — 7'Ac six great avenues meet in the
midst.
Rheims had six principal streets meeting thus in one centre,
where the cathedral stood.

Au ccntri de la ville, entre six aveniles,
S'cleve un saeri temple a la hauteur des nues.

Chapelain,

Note 94, p. 33, col. l. — Possess'd the ToumeUes,
" The bulwark of the Tournellea being much shaken by tho
besiegers' cannon, and the besieged thinking it proper to set
it on fire, the English extinguished the flames, and lodged
themselves in that post. At the same time they became
masters of the tower on the brirlge, from whence the whole
city could be viewed." — Rapin.

74

NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC.

Note 95, p. 33, col. 2. — The ponderous stone with hideous crash
Came like an edrthquakc.

Les bombardes vomissaient drs boulets de picrrr, dont quel-
quemins pesaicnt jusqu' d cent seize Utrres. Ces 7nasses effray-
antes, lancces d la maniirc dc vos boinbes, produisaicnt en tom-
bant sur Ics edifices, I'effet de la foudre. — Le Bran de Char-
melies, i. p. 122.

Note 96, p. 33, col. 2. — The wdd-Jire balls hiss'd through the
■midnight sky.
Drayton eniimcratcs these among the English preoarations
for war :

" The engineer provided the petard
'J'o break the strong portcullies, and the balls
Of wild-fire devised to tlirow from far
To burn to ground their palaces and halls."

And at the siege of Harfleur he says,

" Their brazen slings send in the wild-firo balls."

" Balls of consuming wild-fire
That lickt men up like lightning, have I laughed at.
And tost 'em back again like children's trifles."

B. and F. ; The Mad Lover.

" I do command that particular care be had, advising the
gunners to have half butts ivitli water and vinegar, as is ac-
customed, with bonnets and old sails, and wet mantels to de-
fend fire, that a^ often is thrown.

" Every sliip shall carry two boats lading of stones, to throw
to profit in the time of fight on the deck, forecastle or tops,
according to his burden.

" That the wild-fire be reparted to the people most expert,
that we have for the use thereof, at due time j for that if it be
not overseen, giving charge thereof to those that do understand
it, and such as, we know, can tell how to use it ; otherwise
it may happen to great danger."

Orders set doicn by the duke of Medina to be
observed in the voyage toward England.

Hail. Misc. vol. i.
" Some were preparing to toss balls of wild-fire, as if the sea
had been their tennis-court."

Deliverance of certain Christians from the Turks.

Harl. Misc. vol. i.

Note 97, p. 33, col. 2. — Poisonous pollution.

Thus at the siege of Thin sur I'Escault. " CeuU de lost leur
gectoiait par leur engins chevauh mors et autres bestes mortes et
puantes, pour les empuantir, dont ill estoient la dedans en moult
grant de^stresse. Car lair estoit fort et chault ainsi comme en
plein este, el de cefurent plus constrains que dc nulle autre chose.
Si considerent finablemenl cntre euli que crlle messaise Hz ne
pourroient longucment endurer ne sovffrir, tant leur estoit la
punaisie ubhominable." — Froissart, 1. 38.

This was an evil which sometimes annoyed the besieging
army. At Dan '^ pour la puautise des bestes que Ion tuoit en
lost, et des chevault qui estoient inors, lair estoit tout corrumpu,
dont moult de chevaliers et escuyers en estoient malades et mclen-
colieuz, et sey alloient les plusieurs, refreschir a Bruges et ail-
leurspour eviter cc mauvais air." — Froissart, I. 17.5.

Note 98, p. 33, col. 2. — Crowded in unwholesome vaults

At Thin sur 1' Escault, " La fist le due charter grant foison
d'cngins de Cambray et de Douay, et en y cut sij: moult grans, le
due les fist lever devant la fortcresse. Lesqlz engins gectuient
nuyt et jour grosses pierres et mangonneauli qui nbatoient les
combles et le hault des tours des r.hambres et des salles. Et en
contraignoient les gens du Chastel par ccst assault tresdure-
ment. Et si no.nent les compaignons qui le gar/loirnt demourer
en cliambres 7ien sales quilz eussent, mais en caves et en ccliers."
— Froissart, 1. 38.

Note 99, p. 33, col. 2. — Eager to mark the carrion crow
for food.

Scudery has a most ingenious idea of the effects of famine :
during the blockade of Rome by the Goths, he makes the
inhabitants first eat one another, and then eat themselves.

La rage se meslant d leurs douleurs eztrimrs,

lis se mangent I'un I'autre, ils se mangent euz-mesmes.

Jllaric.
Fuller expresses the want of food pithily. " The siego
grew long, and victuals short."

Note 100, p. 33, col. 2. — IVhen in the San Vie Angel of the
Lord.

And I saw an Angel standing in the sun ; and he cried with
a loud voice, saying to all the fowls that fly in the midst of
heaven, Come and gather yourselves together unto the supper
of the great God :

That ye may eat the flesh of kings, and the flesh of captains,
and the flesh of mighty men, and the flesh of horses, and of
them that sit on them. — Revelation, xix. 17, 18.

A similar passage occurs in E/.ekiel.

And thou, son of man, thus saitli the Lord God, Speak unto
every feathered fowl, and to every beast of the field. As-
semble yourselves, and come ; gather yourselves on every side
to my sacrifice that I do sacrifice for you, even a great sacri-
fice upon the mountains of Israel, that ye may eat flesh and
drink blood.

Ye shall cat the flesh of the mighty, and drink the blood of
the princes of the earth, of rams, of lambs, and of goats, of
bullocks, all of them fatlings of Bashan.

And ye shall eat fat till ye be full, and drink blood till ye
be drunken, ofmy sacrifice which I have sacrificed for you.

Thus ye shall be filled at my table with horses and chariots,
with mighty men, and with all men of war, saith the Lord
God. — Eickiel, xxxix. 17, &c.

Note 101, p. 3*1, col. 2. — Prevent the pang of famine.

Fuller calls this "resolving ratlier to lose their lives by
wholesale on the point of the sword, than to retail them out
by famine."

Note 102, p. 35, col. 1. — Jls when the Mexicans.

" It was the belief of the Mexicans, that at the conclusion
of one of their centuries the sun and earth would be destroyed
On the last night of every century they extinguished all their
fires, covered the faces of the women and children, and ex-
pected the end of the world. The kindling of the sacred fire
on the mountain of Huixachtla was believed an omen of their
safety." — Clavigero.

Note 103, p. 3G, col. 1. — The veins were full.

<I>uir)? K£v yvioiv viv oaov aOcvos eWnmcvciv
A( J( 01 oidlKavTi Kar' avxtva Travrodep tves,
Kai TToXto) Trcp covTf TO Se cdevoi a^iuv aSa;.

Theocritus.

Note 104, p. 36, col. 1. — His silence threatened.
Son silence menace. — Le Moyne.

Note 105, p. 36, col. 1. — seetkefire

Consume him.

Reasons for burning a trumpeter.

" The letter she sent to Suffolk was received with scorn,
and. the trumpeter that brought it commanded to be burnt,
against the law of nations, saith a French * author, but erro-
neously, for his coming was not warranted by the authority of
any lawful prince, but from a private maid, how highly soever
self-pretended, who had neither estate to keep, nor commis-
sion to send a trumpeter." — Fuller's Profane State.

Note 106, p. 36, col. 2. — In sight of Orleans and the Maiden's

host.

De Serres says, " The trumpeter was ready to be burnt in
the sight of the besieged."

Note 107, p. 36, col. 2. — As he that puts it off.

Let not him that girdcth on his harness boast himself, as he
that putteth it off. — 1 Kings, xx. 11.

* De Serree.

NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC.

75

Note lOS, p. 30, col. '2. 4s lehcii Chcdcrlis cuiiics

".1 riiidfiiimiiiisHiUys reuimit.i ad OuukurUioy ; inde. Chorvii ;
post tit 'I'lic Kc Thioi. Htc mulla tUdicimun a vwndclii.i Tiir-
cicu:, qttos Dirvis vocant, ijui co locu insigncm kuhcnt tcdem, dc
hcrue quodam Clirderlc siimiiid cur/xirii iitqiic aiiimi furliluilinr,
queiii cHiidcm fiiisse cum nostra D. Geurgio fabulunlur ; cudciii-
que illi ascribuiit qua: huic nostri ; iiimirum vasti ct hvrrcndi
dracunis cicde servassc ejpvnituin virfrinem. Ad luce alia ad-
jiciu.nl multa, ct qua: libitum est, comminiscunlur, ilium per
loiiirinquas oroi perc^rinari solitiim, ad Jluvium poslrcmo pcr-
venisse, ci(j«,« aquin bibentibiLt pmsturcut immortulilatcm. Qui
quidcm ftuciits, in qud parte lerrarum sit, nun dicunt; nisi fur-
tussis in Utopict cullocari debet : tanlum affirmant ilium mairnis
tenel/ris, multdque ciUiffine ubductum latere ; ncque cuiquam
mortulium post Chederlem, uti ilium wlcret, coyiti^issc. Clicder-
lem vera ipsum mortis Icifibtis solutum, hue iliac in equo prm-
stanti^simo, qui similiter cjiuidcm aqua luiusta. mortalUatcm
exaerit, dica^ari, gaudenlem prwliLi, adesse in belli) mcliuribus,
aut Us qui ejus opem imploraccrinl, cujuscunque tandem sint
relii^ionu.^^ — Busbequius^

The Persians sny, that Alcxan<lcr coniin? to understand,
that in tlic mountain of Kal" there was a great cave, very
black and dark, wiierein rin the water of immortality, vvoul<l
needs take a journey thither. But being afraid to lose his
way in the cave, and considering with himself that he had
comniitti d a great oversight in leaving the more aged in cities
and fortified places, and keeping about his person only young
people, such as were not able to advise him, he ordered to be
brought to him some old man, whose counsel he might follow
in the adventure ho was then upon. There were in the whole
army hut two brothers, named Cliidder and Elias, who had
brought their father along wilh them, and this good old man
bade his sons go and tell Alexander, that to go through with
the design he had undertaken, his only way were to take a
mare that had a colt at her heels, and to ride upon het into
the cave, and leave the colt at the entrance of il, and the
mare would infallibly bring him back again to the same place
without any trouble. Alexander thought the advice so good,
that he would not take any other person with him in that
journey but those two brothers, leaving the rest of his retinue
at the entrance of the cave. He advanced so far that he
came to a gite, so well polished, that notwithstanding the
great darkness, it gave light enough to let him see there was
a bird fastened thereto. The bird asked Alexander what he
would have.' lie made answer that he looked for the water
of immortality. The bird asked him, what was done in the
world.' Mischief enough, replies -Alexander, since there is
no vice or sin but reigns there. Whereupon the bird getting
loose and living away, the gale opened and Alexander saw an
Angel sitting, wilh a trumpet in his hand, holding it as if he
were going to put it to his mouth. Alexander asked him his
name. The .\ngel made answer his n:trne w;is Raphael, and
that ho only staid for a command from fiod to blow the trum-
pet and to call the dead to judgment. Which hiving said,
he asks .\lexander who he was.' [ am .Vlexander, replied he,
and I seek the water of immorlality. 'J'he .Angel gave him
a stone, and said to him, go liiy wayes, and look for another
stone of the same weight with this, and then thou shalt find
immortality. Whereupon .Alexander asked how long he had
to live. The angel said to him, till such time as the heaven
and the earth which encompass thee be turneil to iron. Alex-
ander, being come out of the cave, sought a long time, and not
meeting with any stone just of the same weight wilh the
other, he put one into the balance which he thought came
very near it, and finding but very liule difference, he added
thereto a little earth, which made the scales even ; it being
God's intention to shew Alexander thereby, that he was not
to ex[)ect immortality till he himself were put into the earth.
At last Alexander having one d.iy a fall oft' his horse in the
barren ground of Ghur, they laid him upon the coat ho wore
over his armour, and covered him w ith his buckler to keep off
the heat of the sim. Then he began to comprehend the
prophecy of the Angel, and was satisfied the hour of his
death was at hind ; accordingly he died.

They add to Ibis fable, that the two brothers Chidder and
Elias drunk of the water of immortality, and that they are
still living but invisible, Elias upon the earth, and Chidder in
'.he water ; wherein the latter hath go great power, that those

who arc in danger of being destroyed by water, if they ear-
nestly pray, vowing an olferijig to him, and firnjiy believing
that ho can relieve them, shall escape the danger.

Aiiibassiidvr's Travels.
Ktiidir and Elias occupy a distinguished |dacc in the legion
of jirophits. The name of the first signifies verdant, alluding
to the power which he possessed of producing, wherever lie
trod, the most beautiful and enchinling vcnlure. 'J'hcse two
are regarded as the protectors and tutelary gods of travel-
lers ; the former u])un the sea, the latter upon the land ; and
they are thought to be incessantly employed in promoting
these s.ilulary objects. In their rapid and uniform courses,
they are believed to meet once a year at^/(»n, in the environs
of Mecca, the day on which the pilgrims are assembled.

£>' OIissuh's Jlisturtj of die Otiwmun Empire.

Note 109, p. 37, col. 1. — The stoords that lute Jiash'd to the
evening sun.

Now does the day grow blacker than before,
The swords that glistered late, in purjile gore
Now ail distain'd, their former brightnessc lose.

May's Edward III.
And again. Book 7.

The glittering swords that shone so bright of late
Are quickly all distain'd with purjde gore.

NoTK 110, J). 37, col. 2. — Of blessed Mary vowed a vow of
peace.

II advint a luy rl a toute sa gent, estant devant Chartres, qui
moult liumilia el brise son courage ; car enlendis que ces truictcurs
Erangois alloient et presckoient ledit roy et son conseil, et encores
niillc response agrcable nen avoient cue. Une orage une tcmpeste
ct une fcnlilre si grande et si horrible descendit du del en lost du
roy Danglitirre qud sembloit propremeni que le siecle deust finer.
Car il rheoit si grosses pierres que ellcs tuoyeut hoinmcs et
chevaulx, et en furenl les plus hardis tons esbahis. Adoncques
rrgarda le roy Dangletcrre deve.rs leglise de jVostre Dame dc
Chartres, et se votia et rendit devotement a JVostre Dame, et
promist, et confessa sicomme il dist depuis qiteil se accordcroit a
la paix. — Froissnrt.

But while he lodged there (before Chartres), his army mak-
ing a horrible spoilo of the whole country, there chanced ai\
occasion, as the work of Heaven, which suddenly quailed his
ambitious design to ruin France : for behold a horrible and
extraordinary tempest of haile, thunder, and lightning, fell
with such violence as many horses and men in the army
perished, as if that God hud stretched forth his hand from
heaven to stay his course. — De Sei-res.

Note 111, p. 38, col. 1. — Deep through the sky the hollow
tliunders roll'd.

The circumstance of the Maid's entering Orleans nt miil-
night in a storm of thunder and lightning is liistorically true.

"The Englishmen perceiving that thei within could not
long continue for faute of vitaile and pouder, kepte not theii
watche so diligently as thei wer accustomed, nor scoured not
the countrey environed as thei before had ordained. Whiche
negligence the citezens shut in perceiving, sent worde thereof
to the French capitaines, which with Pucelle in the dedde
tyme of the nighte, and in a greate rayne and Ihunilre, with all
their vitaile and artilery entered into the citie."

Hall,fr. 127.

Phakespear also notices this storm. Striking as the circum-
stance is, Chapclain has omitted it.

Note 112, p. 38, col. 1. — Strong were the English forts

The patience and perseverance of a besieging army in those
ages appear almost incredible to us now. The camp ofFer
dinand bid'ore Granada swelled into a city. Edward III
made a market town before Calais. Upon the captain's
refusal to surrender, says Barnes, " he began to entrench
himself strongly about the city, setting his own tent directly
against Ihe ehii^f gates at which he intended to enter ; then he
placed bastions between the town and the river, and set out
regular streets, and reared up decent buildings of strong

76

NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC.

timber between tin) trencbes, wbicb he covered with thatch,
ree<l, broom und skins. Thus he encompassed the whole
town of Calais, from Uisban on the northwest side to Cour-
giiino on the northeast, nil along by Pangate, at Port and
Fort do Nicoluy, commonly by the English called Ncwland-
bridge, down by Ilammes, Cologne and Marke ; so that his
camp looked like a spacious city, and was usually by stran-
gers, that came thither to market, called New Calais. For
this prince's reputation for justice was so great, that to his
markets (which he held in his camp twice every week, viz.
on Tuesdays and Saturdays for flesh, fish, bread, wine and
ale, with cloth and all other necessaries,) there came not only
his friends and allies from England, Flanders and Aquitain,
but even many of king Philip's subjects and confederates
conveyed thither their cattle and other commodities to be
sold."

Note 113, p. 38, col. 2. — Entering wilJi his eye.

Jfanc lentus, celsis adstans in colUbus, intrat
Urban oculis, discitque locos cauxsasque locorum.

Sitius Italicus, xii. 5G7.

Note 114, p. 38, col. 9. — Defiled and unrepair'd.

Jlhjccere madcntes,
Sicut erant, dypeos ; nee qui-squam spicula iersit,
JVec laudavU equum, nitidis nee cassidis altam
Coinpsit adornauitque jubaw. Statins.

Note 115, p. 39, col. 2. — Parthenopmus.

Ipsam, Mirnal-d purrum cum vidit in mnbrd.,
Dianam, tcnero si<piantem- gramina passu,
Ignovissc ferunl coiiiiti, Dicticaque tela
Ipsain, et Jlmycltcas humcris uptasse pharetras.

ttedct nemoruniy titulumque nocentcin.

Sanguinis kumani pudor est nescire sagittas.

Statins, IV. -256.

Note 116, p. 39, col. 2. — Oladdisilale.

Gladdisdale must be the sir William Glansdale of Shakes-
pear. Stovve calls him William Gladesdale.

It is proper to remark that I have introduced no fictitious
names among the killed. They may all be found in the
various histories.

Note 117, p. 39, col. 2.— The bulista.

J^cque enim solis eicussu lacertis
Lancea, sed tenso balista turbine rapta,
Haud unum contenta latus transire, quiescit ;
Srd pandens pcrqtte arma viam, pcrque ossa, rclicla
Mvrte fugit : supcrest tclo post vulncra cnrsus.

Lucan. III.
Vegetius says, that the balista discharged darts with sucli
rapidity and violence, that nothing could resist thoir force.
This engine was used particularly to discharge darts of a sur-
prising length and weight, and often many small ones together.
Its form was not unlike that of a broken bow ; it had two
arms, but straight and not curved like those of a cross-how, of
which the whole acting force consists in bending the bow.
That of the balista as well as of the catapulta, lies in its
cords. — Rollin.

Note 118, p. 39, col. 2. — Where by the bayle's embattled wall.

The bayle or lists was a space on the outside of the ditch
surrounded by strong palisades, and sometimes by a low em-
battled wall. In the attack of fortresses, as the range of the
machines then in use did not exceed the distance of four stadia,
the besiegers did not carry on their approaches by means of
trenches, but begun their operations abovi! ground, with the
attack of the bayle or lists, where many feats of chivalry were
performed by the knights and men at arms, who considered
the assault of that work as particularly belonging to them, Ihe
weight of their armor preventing them from scaling the walls.
As this part was attacked by the knights and men at arms, it
was also defended by those of the same rank in the place,
whence many single combats were f«ught here. This was
at the first investing of the place. — Orose.

Note 119, p. 39, col. 2. — A rude cnat of mail,

Unhosed, unhooded, as of lowly line

In France, only persons of a certain estate, called unfirfdt
lumber, were permitted to wear a hauberk, which was the ar-
mor of a knight. Esquires might only wear a simple coat
of mail, without the hood and hose. Had this aristocratic dis-
tinction consisted in the ornamental part of the arms alone,
it would not have been objectionable. In the enlightened
and free states of Greece, every soldier was well provided with
defensive arms. In Rome, a civic wreath was the reward of
him who should save the life of a citizen. But to use the
words of Dr. Gillies, "the miserable peasants of modern
Europe are exposed without defence as without remorse, by
the ambition of men, whom the Greeks would have styled
tyrants."

Note 120, p. 39, col. 3. — The rude-featured helm.

The burgonet, which represented the shape of the head and
features.

Note 121, p. 39, col. 2. — On his crown-created helm.

Earls and dukes frequently wore their coronets on the
crests of their helmets. At the battle of Agineourt Henry
wore "a bright helmet, whereupon was seta crowne of gold,
repleate with pearle and precious stones, marvellous rich." — ■
Stowe.

Note 122, p. 39, col. 2. — .ind against the iron fence beneath.
A breastplate was sometimes worn under the hauberk.

Note 123, p. 40, col. 1. — .... Conradc, with an active bound,
Sprung on tlie battlements.

The nature of this barri(;rhas been explained in a previous
note. The possibility of leaping upon it is exemplified in the
following adventure, which is characteristic of the period in
which it happened, (1370.)

" At that time there was done an extraordinary feat of arms
by a Scotch knight, named sir John Assueton, being one of
those men of arms of Scotland, who had now entered king
Edward's pay. This man left his rank with his spear in his
hand, his page riding behind him, and went towards the bar-
riers of Noyon, where he alighted, saying, ' Here hold my
horse, and stir not from hence ;' and so he came to the bar-
riers. There were there at that time sir John de Eoye, and
sir Lancelot de Lorris, with ten or twelve more, who all won-
dered what this knight designed to do. He for his part being
close at the harriers said unto them, 'Gentlemen, I am come
hither to visit you, and because I see you will not come forth
of your barriers to me, I will come in to you, if I may, and
prove my knighthood against you. Win me if you can.'
And with that ho leaped over the bars, and began to lay
about him like a lion, he at thcni and they at him ; so that he
alone fought thus against them all for near the space of an
hour, and hurt several of them. And all the while those of
the town belield with much delight from the walls and their
garret windows his grca: activity, strength and courage ; but
they oft'ered not to do him any hurt, as they might very easily
have done, if they had been minded to cast stones or darts at
him ; but the French knights charged thoni to the contrary,
saying ' how they should let them alone to deal with him.'
When matters had continued thus about an hour, the Scotch
page came to the harriers with his master's horse in his
hand, and said in his language, ' Sir, pray come away, it is
high time for you to leave ofi' now ; for the army is marched
oft" out of sight.' The knight heard his man, and then gave
two or three terrible strokes about him to clear the way, and
so, armed as he was, he leaped back again over the barriers
and mounted his horse, having not received any hurt ; and
turning to the Frenchmen, said, ' Adieu, sirs I I thank you
for my diversion.' And with that he rode after his man
upon the spur towards the army." — Joshua Barnes, p. 801.

Note 124, p. 40, col. 1. — The iron weight swung high.

Le massue est vn hciton gros comme le bras, ayant d Z'un rZe
sf,5 bouts 7ine forte courruie pour tenir I'anne ct I'rmpScher de
glisser, et d I'autre trois chatnons defer, aurqttcls pcnd un boulet

NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC,

77

pe.ianl huU livra. II n^ij a pof d'hommc aujourd'hiii capnbU
df vmnitr ane telle arme. — Lr Grand.

Tlio arms of tlie Medici family " are romnntirally roforred
to Avi'r;ir;lo do Modici, a comiiiundcr under Cliarlcmagnc,
who for liis valor in destroying llie gigantic plunderer Mu-
gello, by whom the surrounding country was laid waste, was
honored with the privilege of bearing for his arms six paVe
or balls, as characteristic of tho iron balls that hung from
the mace of his fierce antagonist, the impression of which
remained on his shield." — Roscoc.

Scudery enumerates the mace among the instruments of
war, in a passage whose concluding line may vie with any
bathos of sir Richaid Blackmore.

La conftuieinentfrappcnt de loales parts
Picrres, pii/ucs, espieui, masses, fie clieji et dards,
Lances etjavclots, sabres ct marleaux d^armes,
Dangereuses instruments des gucrriercs alarmes. — .Slaric.

Note 125, p. 40, col. 2. — There icasaportal in Vie English fort,
Which open'd on Vie wall.

Vitruvius observes, in treating upon fortified walls, that
near the towers the walls should be cut within-side the
breadth of tho tower, and that the ways broke in this manner
should only bo joined and continued by beams laid upon tlie
two cxlremilics, without being made fast with iron ; that in
case the enemy slioiiM make himself master of any part of
the wall, tlie besieged might remove this wooden l)ridge, and
thereby prevent his passage to the other parts of the wall
and into the towers. — Rollin.

The precaution recommended by Vitruvius liad not been
observed in the construction of the Englisli walls. On each
side of every tower, a small door opened upon the wall ; and
the garrison of one tower are represented in the poem as fly-
ing by this way from cue to shelter themselves in the other.
With the enterprising spirit and the defensive arms of chival-
ry, tile subsequent events will not be found to exceed
probability.

Note 126, p. 40, col. 2. — JiTot overbrow'd by jutting parapet.

The machicolation : a projection over the gate-way of a
town or castle, contrived fur letting fall great weights, scald-
ing water, tc. on the heads of any assailants who might have
got close to the gate. " MachecolLre, or macheeoulare,"
says Coke, " is to make a warlike device over a gate or otlicr
passage like to a grate, through which scalding water, or pon-
derous or offensive things may be cast upon the assaylants."

Note 127, p. 41, col. 1. — Plucking from t}ie shield the severed
head,
}h threw it back.
I have met with one instance in Englisli history, and only
one, of throwing the spear after the manner of the ancients.
It is in Stowc's chronicle. " 1 143. Tho 30th of January, a
challenge was done in Smithfield within lists, before tlie king ;
the one sir Philip de Beawse of Arra^on, a kn!:;Iit, and the
other an esquire of the king's house called Jolin Ausley or
Astley. These comming to the fieldo, tooke their tents, and
there was the knight's sonno made knight by the king, and so
brought again to his father's tent. Then the heralds of
armes called them by name to doe their battel, and so they
came both all armed, with their weapons ; tho knight came
with his sword drawn, and the es(|uire with his speare. The
esquire cast his speare against the knight, but tho knight
■ivoiding it with his sword, cast it to the ground. Then tlie
esquire took his axe and went agr.inst the knight suddenly,
on whom he stroke many strokes, hard and sore upon bis
baaenel, and on his hind, and made him loose and lot full his
axe to the ground, and br.ist up liis limbes three times, and
caught his dagger and would have smitten him in the face,
for to have slaine him in the field ; and then the king cried
hoo, and so they were departed and went to their tents, and
the king dubbed John Astley knight for his valiant torney,
and the knight of Arragon offered his armes at Windsor."

Note 128, p. 41, col. 1 — Full oi the corselet of a meaner man.
The corselet was chi rfly won by pikemcn.

Note 129, p. 42, col. 1. — Ji harlot I — an adulteress !

This woman, who is always respectably named in French
history, had her punishment both in herself and in her child.

"This fair Agnes had been five years in the service of the
queen, during w hich she had enjoyed all the pleasures of life,
in wearing rich clothes, furred robes, golden chains, and pre-
cious stones ; and it was commonly reported that the king
often visited her, and maintained her in a state of concu-
binage, for tlie people arc more inclined to speak ill than well
of their superiors.

" The afi'ection the king showed her was as much for her
gaiety of temper, pleasing manners, and agreeable conversa-
tion, as tor her beauty. .She was bo beautiful that she was
called the Fairest of the Fair, and the Lady of Beauty, as
well on account of her personal charms, as becausit the king
had given her for life the castle of l!eaut6 near Paris. Slie
was very charitable, and most liberal in her alms, wiiich she
distributed among such churches as were out of repair, and
to beggars. It is true that Agnes had a daugliter who lived
but a short time, which she said was tho king's, and gave it
to him as the proper father ; but the king always excused
himself as not having any claim to it. She may indeed have
called in help, for the matter was variously talked of.

" At length she was seized with a bowel complaint, and
was a long time ill, during which she was very contrite, and
sincerely repented of her sins. Slie often remembered Mary
Magdalene, who had been a great sinner, and devoutly in-
voked God and the virgin Mary to her aid like a true catliolie :
after she had received the sacraments, she called for her book
of prayers, in which she had written with her own hand the
verses of ^t. Bernard to repeat them. Slie then made many
gifts (which were put down in writing, that her executors
might fulfil them, with the other articles of her will), which
including alms and the payment of her servants might amount
to nearly sixty thousand crowns.

" Her executors were Jacques Ccrur, councellor and master
of the wardrobe to the king, master Robert Poictevin phy-
sician, and master Stephen Chevalier treasurer to the king,
who was to take the lead in the fulfilment of her will should
it be liis gracious pleasure.

" The fair Agnes, perceiving that she was daily growing
weaker, said to the lord de la Trimouillc, the lady of the
seneschal of Poitou, and one of tiio king's equerries called
Oouffier, in the presence of all her damsels, that our fragile
life was but a stinking ordure.

" She then required that her confessor would give her abso-
lution from all her sins and wickedness, confurniable to an
absolution, which was, as she said, at Loehes, which the con-
fessor on her assurance complied with. After this she uttered
a loud shriek, and called on the mercy of God and the support
of the blessed virgin Mary, and gave up the ghost on Monday
the 9th day of February, in the year 1449, about six o'clock
in tho aflernoon. Her body was opened, and her heart in-
terred in tlie church of the said abbey, to which she had been
a most liberal benefactress ; and her body was conveyed with
many honors to Loehes, where it was interred in tho col-
legiate church of our Lady, to which also she had made many
handsome donations and several foundations. May God
have mercy on her soul, and admit it into Paradise."

Monstj-eJet, vol. ix. p. 97

On the 13th day of June, the seneschal of Normandy, count
of Maulevrier, and son to the late sir Pierre de Breze, killed
at the battle of Montlebery, went to the village of Roinicrs,
near Dourdan, which belonged to him, for the sake of hunt-
ing. He took with him his 1 idy, the princess Charlotte of
France, natural daughter of the lite king Charles the VII.
by Agnes Sorel. After the chace, when they were returned
to Romiers to sup and lodge, the seneschal retired to a single-
bedded room for the night ; his lady retired also to another
chamber, when moved by bet disorderly passions (as the hus
hand said) she called to her a gentleman from Poitou, named
Pierre de la Vegne, who was head huntsman to the seneschal,
and made him lie with her. This was told to the seneschal
by the master of his household, called Pierre I'Apothicaire ;
when he instantly aro-e, and taking his sword, broke open tho
door of the chamber where his lady and the huntsman were
in bed. The huntsman started up in his shirt, and the senes-
chal gave him first a severe blow with his sword on the head.

78

WOTES TO JOAN OF ARC.

and tliun thrust it through his hody, and liillud him on the
spot. This dono, he went into an adjoining room where liis
children lay, and finding liis wife hid under the coverlid of
their bed, dragged her thence by the arm along the ground,
and struck her between the shoulders with his sword. On
her raising herself on her knees lie ran his sword through her
breast, and she fell down dead. He sent her hody for inter-
ment to the abbey of Coulens, where her obsequies were
performed, and he caused the huntsman to he buried in the
garden of the house wherein he had been killed. — Monstrclct,
vol. ii. p. 233.

Note 130, p. 42, col. 1. — and would tliat I liad lived

III those old times.

MriKtT^ tiTCiT a)0£(Xoi/ cyo) ircixnTOiai /itTCivai
Avipaaiv, aXX' >7 rrpuadc Qavnv ri eireiTa yevcaOat.
Nvv yap ifi yci'Oi tori ati^ripcon' <jj6ctot ripap
HavaovTui KU^aTQ} Kat oi^U"5, uy^e n vVKTcop,
•Pdcipoiicvoi. Hesiod

Note 131, p. 42, col. 2. — Then was that nvble heart of
Douglas pierced.

The heart of Bruce was, by his own dying will, intrusted
to Douglas to bear it to Jerusalem. This is one of the finest
stories in the whole age of chivalrous history. Douglas
inshrined the heart in a golden case, and wore it round his
neck ; he landed in tfpain on his way, and slopped to assist the
Castillians against the Moors, — i)robably during the siege of
Algeziras. There, in the heat of notion, he took the heart from
his neck, and cast it into the thick of the enemy, exclaiming,
as Barbour has it,

" Now pass thou forth before
As thou wast wont in fight to he,
And I shall follow or else die."
In this action he perished^ and from that time the bloody
heart has been borne by the family.

Note 132, p. 44, col. 1. — the shield

Pillowed Vie helmed head.

11 n^est r''n de si dour, pour des ceeurs pleins de gloire,
Que la pautilt t~uit nui suit une victoire,
Durmir sur un tropneo, wt m '•harmant repos,
Et le champ de battaile est le lici i^\ii 'lerns.

Scuu.Ci"y. Alaric.
The night after a battle is certainly more agreeable tiian the
night before one. A soldier may use his shield for a pillow,
but he must be very ingenious to sleep upon a trophy.

Note 133, p. 44, col. 1. — Oazing with such a look as though
shefear'd
The thing she sought.

With a dumb silence seeming that it fears
The thing it went about to effectuate.

Daniel.

Note 134, p. 44, col. 2. — One loose lock

Play'd o'er his check's black paleness.

" JVoire pasleur."

Le Moyne. St, Louis. Liv. xvi.

Note 135, p. 45, col. 1. — The barbican.

Next the bayle was the ditch, fosa, graff, or mote : generally
where it couM bs a wot one, and pretty deej). The passage
over it w.is by a draw-bri.lge, covered by an advance work
called a barbican. The barbican was sometimes beyond the
dit'h that covered the draw-bridge, and in towns and large
fortresses had frequently a ditch and dr iw-bridge of its own.
Orosc.

Note 133, p. 45, col. 1. — TTie embattled wall.
The outermost walls enclosing towns or fortresses were
commonly perpendicular, or had a very small external talus.
They were H inked by semi-circular, polygonal, or sq\iare
towers, commonly about forty or fifty yards distant from each
other. Within were steps to mount the terrc-pleine of the

walls or rampart, which wi re always defended by an embat-
tled or crenellated parapet. — Grose.

The fortifications of the middle ages difl'ered in this respect
from those of the ancients. When the besiegers had gained
the summit of the wall, the descent on the other side was safe
and easy. But " the ancients did not generally support their
walls on the inside with earth in the manner of the talus or
slope, which made the attacks more dangerous. For though
the enemy had gained some footing upon them, he could not
assure himself of taking the city. It was necessary to get
down, and to make use of some of the ladders by which he
had mounted ; and that descent exposed the soldier to very
great danger." — Rallin.

Note 137, p. 45, col. 1. — Behind the guardian pavais fenced.

The p ivais, or pavache, was a large shield, or rather a port-
able mantlet, capable of covering a man from head to foot,
and probably of sufficient thickness to resist the missive
weapons then in use. These were in sieges carried by ser-
vants, whose business it was to cover their masters with them,
whilst they, with their bows and arrows, shot at the enemy
on the ramp irts. As this must have been a service of danger,
it was that perhaps which made the office of scutifer honora-
ble. The pavais was rectangular at the bottom, but rounded
off above : it was sometimes supported by props. — Orose.

Note 138, p. 45, col. 1. — fVith all Oieir mangonels.
Mangonel is a term comprehending all the smaller engines.

Note 139, p. 45, col. 1. — Tortoises

The tortoise was a machine composed of very strong and
solid timber work. The height of it to its highest beam,
which sustained the roof, was twelve feet. The base was
square, and each of its fronts twenty-five feet. It was
covered with a kind of quilted mattress made of raw hides,
and prepared with different drugs to prevent its being set on
fire by combustibles. This heavy machine was supported
upon four wheels, or perhaps upon eight. It was called tor-
toise from its serving as a very strong covering and defence
against the enormous weights thrown down on it ; those under
it being safe in the same manner as a tortoise under his shell
It was used both to fill up the fosse, and for sapping. It may
not be improper to add, that it is believed, so enormous a
weight could not be moved from place to place on wheels, and
that it was pushed forward on rollers. Under these wheels
or rollers, the way was laid with strong pi inks to facilitate
its motion, and prevent its sinking into the ground, from
whence it would have been very difficult to have removed it.
The ancients have observed that the roof had a thicker cover-
ing, of hides, hurdles, sea-weed, &c. than the sides, as it was
exposed to much greater shocks from the weights thrown upon
it by the besieged. It had a door in front, which was drawn
up by a chain as far as was necessary, and covered the soldiers
at work in filling up the fosse with fascines. — Roilin.

This is the tortoise of the ancients, but that of the middle
ages differed from it in nothing material.

Note 140, p. 45, col. 2. — .^ dreadful train.
'_' The besiegers having carried the bayle, brought up their
machines and established themselves in the counterscarp,
began under cover of their cats, sows, or tortoises, to drain
the ditch, if a wet one, and also to fill it up with hurdles and
fascines, and level it for the passage of their movable towers
Whilst this was doing, the archers, attended by young men
carrying shields (pavoises), attempted with their arrows to
drive the besieged from the towers and ramparts, being them-
selves covered by these portable mantlets. The garrison on
their part essayed by the discharge of machines, cross and long
bows, to keep the enemy at a distance." — Orose.

Note 141, p. 45, col. 2. — He bore an arbaUst himself,

.4 weapon for its sure destructiKemss
Abominated once.

The crosR-bow was for some time laid aside in obedience
to a decree of the second Lateran council held in 1139. " jJr-

NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC.

79

tem illam mortifcram et D,'0 odibilem ballistariorum adversus
chrijftianos et aitftolicos cxercrre dt cwtero sub anutJicmale pro-
hibcmajt." This weapon Wiis again introduced into our armies
by Kicliarcl I., who boin;; slain with a (luarrcl shot from one
of them, at the siege of the cnstio of Chnluz in Normandy, it
was considered as a judgment from heaven iiitlicled upon him
for his impiety. Guillaume le Breton, relating the death of
this king, puts the following into the mouth of Atropos :

Ildc voto, non alA Rlchnrdum morte perirc,
Ut qui FrancigenU ballistiB primitus usu/n
Tradidit^ ipse stti rem primitius erpenatur,
Qacmjue alios docuit in se vim seiUial artis.

Orose.

Note 14-3, p. 45, col. 2. — . . . who kneeling by the trebuehct.
Charged its long sling with death.

From the trcbuchef thoy discharged many stones at once by
a sling. It acted by means of a great weight fastened to the
short arm of a lever, which being let fall, raised the end of the
long arm with a great velocity A man is represented kneel-
ing to load one of these in an ivory carving, supposed to be of
the age of Edward IF. — Orosc.

Note 143, p. 45, col. 2. — He in Vic groove the feather'd
quarrel placed.

Quarrels, or carreaux, were so called from their heads,
which were square pyramids of iron.

Note 144, p. 46, col. 1 — some tlie icaten/ fence . . . .

Drain painful.

The tortoises, &c. and movable towers having reached the
Wills, the besiegers under them cither began to mine, or batter
them with the r im. They also established batteries of balis-
tas and mangonels on the counterscarp. These were opposed
by those of the enemy.

Note 145, p. 46, col. 1. — Or charging with huge, stnnes the
murderous sling.

The matafunda.

NoT£ 146, p. 46, col. 1. — or in the espringal

Fix Oie brass-winged arrows.

The espringal threw large darts called muchetlji, sometimes
winged with brass instead of feathers. Procopius says that
because feathers could not be put to the large dirts discharged
from the balista, the ancients used pieces of wood six inches
thick, which had the same effect.

Note 147, p. 46, col. 1. — .^ ponderous stone from sovie huge
martinet.

Le lendemain vindrent dear m,aistres engingneurs au due de
JVormandie, qui dtrenl que, si on leur vouloit tivrer boys et oh-
vriers, Hz ferofnt quntre eschauffnuh et haulz que on men'roit
aVLC murs du chasteU et seroient si hauh q'lz surmontrroient les
murs. Le due commanda q'lz Icfcisscnt, et ft.it prendre tous les
c'larpmtiers du pays, et payer largement. Si furent faiti ces
qualre cicluiiiffaulj: en ijualre grosses nrfi, mais on y mi<t longue-
menl et comterent grans deniers. Si yjist on les gens entrer
q'a ceulz du chastel devoient comhatlre. Quant ill eurent passe
la mottte de la riviere, ceulz du chastel desclinquerent quatre mar-
tiiuti q'lz avoient faitz nouvellement pour rcmedier conlre Icsdili
esehauffaulz. Ces quatre martiiietz gettolent si grosser pierres et
si sourent sur scs e.ichaiiffault q'lz furent bien tost froissez tant
qui les gensdarmes et ceulz que les cnndviwievt ve se peurcnt de-
da IS garantir. Si se relircrent arrirre le plus tost quilz peurent.
Et ainfois q'Izfussent oultre la riviere lung des esehauffaulz fut
enfondre aufoiis de leaue. — Froissart, /. ff. 82.

Note 148, p. 46, col. 1. — Ji moving tower the men of Orleans
wheel.

The following extract from the History of Edward III. by
Joshua Barnes contains a full account of these moving towers.
'' Now the earl of Darby had layn before Reulo more than

nine weeks, in which time he had made two vast belfroys or
bastilles of massy timber, with three stages or floors ; each of
the belfroys running on four huge wheels, bound Hl)out with
thick hoops of iron ; and the sides and other parts that any
ways respected the town were covered with raw hides, thick
laid, to defend the engines from lire and shot. In every one of
these stages were placeil an hundred archers, and between the
two bastilles, there were two hundred men with pickaxes and
mattocks. From these six stages six hundred archers shot so
fiercely all altogether, that no man could appear at his defence
without a sufficient punishment : so that the belfroys being
brought upon wheels by the strength of men over a pan of the
ditch, which was purposely made plain and level by the faggots
and earth and stones cast upon them, the two hundred pioneers
plyed their work so well under the protection of these engines,
that they made a considerable breach through the walls of the
town."

Note 149, p. 46, col. 1. Irchers, through the opening, shot

their shafU.

The archers and cross-bowmen from the upper stories Ln the
movable towers essayed to drive away the garrison from the
parapets, and on a proper opportunity to let fall u bridge, by
that means to enter the town. In the bottom story was often
a large ram. — Orose.

Note 150, p. 46, col. 2. — in d from Vie arbalist the fire-tipt
dart
Shot burning through the skij.

-Against the movable tower there were many modes of
defence. The chief was to break up the ground over vvhich it
was to pass, or by undermining it to overthrow it. Attempts
were likewise made to set it on fire, to prevent which it was
covered with raw hides, or coated over with alum. — Grose.

Note 151, p. 46, col. 2. — Ore the ramparts lowered from

above
The bridge reclines.

These bridges are described by Itollin in the account of the
moving towers which lie gives from Vegetius : — "The moving
towers are made of an assemblage of beams and strong planks,
not unlike a house. To secure them against the fires thrown
by the besieged, they are covered with raw hides, or with
pieces of cloth made of hair. Their height is in proportion to
their base. They are sometimes thirty feet square, and some-
times forty or fifty. They are higher thin the walls or even
towers of the city. They are supported upon several wheels
according lo mechanic principles, by the means of which the
machine is easily made to move, how great soever it may be.
The town is in great danger if this tower can appro tch the
walls ; tor it has stairs from one story to another, and includes
different methods of attack. At bottom it has a ram to lialter
the wall, and on the middle story a draw-bridge, made of two
beams with rails of basket-work, which lets down easily upon
the wall of a city, when within the rench of it. The be-iegeis
pass upon this bridge, to make themselves masters of llie W..I1.
Upon the higher stories are soldiers armed with partisans and
missive weapons, who keep a perpetual discharge upci; the
works. When affairs are in this posture, a place seldom held
out long. For what can they hope who have nothing to cim-
fide in but the height of their ramjiarts, when they see others
suddenly appear which command them ? "

The towers or belfreys of modern times rarely exceeded
three or four stages or stories.

Note 152, p. 47, col. 1. — the braxs-wing'd darts

HTiirl as they pierce the victim.

These darts were called viretons, from their whirling about
in the air.

Note 153, p. 47, col. 1. — Curineus.

" And here, with leave bespoken to recite a grand fable,
though dignified by our best poot-f, while Brutus on « certain
festival day, solemnly ke|>t on thiit shore where ho first landed,
was with the people in great jollity and mirth, a crew of these
savages breaking in among them, began on the sudden anotlier

80

NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC.

son of gaino lliaii at such a meeting was expected. l!ut at
length hy m.uiy hands overcome, (ioeniagog the hngest, in
height tHelve ciil)its, is. reserved alive, that witli liini Coriiieus
who desired nolliing more, might try his strength ; whom in
a wrestle the giant catching aloft, with a terrible hugg hroke
three of his lihs : nevertheless Corineus enraged heaving him
up hy m.iiii force, and on his shoulders bearing him to the next
high rock, threiB him headlong all shatUred into Hit nea, and left
his name on the cli/F, called ever since Langoemagog, which
is ID say, the giant's leaj)." — Milton's Hist, of England.

The exjiression brute vastness is taken from the same work
of Milton, where he relates the death of Morindus. "Well
fitted to such a heastial cruelty was his end ; for hearing of a
huge monster that from the Irish sea infested the coast, and in
the pride of his strength foolishly attempting to set manly
valor against a brute vastness, when his weapons were all
in vain, by tliut horrible mouth he was catched up and de-
voured."

Note 154, p. 47, col. 9. — T/cis is a favor.

"The tournelles adjoining to the bridge was kept by Gla-
cidas (one of the most resolute captains among the English,)
having well encouraged his men to defend themselves and to
fight for their lives.

'• The skirmish begins at nine of the clock in the morning,
and the ladders are planted. A storm of English arrows falls
upon our men with such violence as they recoiled. ' How
now ! ' sailli the Virgin, ' liave we begun so well to end so ill .'
let us charge ! they are our own, seeing God is on our side ! '
so every one recovering his forces, flocks about the Virgin.
The English double the storm upon the thickest of the troops.
The Virgin fighting in the foremost ranks and encouraging
lier men to do well was shot through the arm with an arrow j
she, nothing amazed, takes tlie arrow in one hand and her
sword in the other, 'This is a favor! ' says she, ' let us go
on 1 they caimot escape the hand of GOD ! ' "

Chapelain has dilated this exclamation of the Maiil into a
ridiculous speech.

Quay I valeiircuz Oucrricrs, quay ! dans vostrc avantage

Un pea de sang perdu, vousfatt perdre courage .'

Pour moy,je le repute, a supreme bonheur,

Et dans ce petit malje tronnc un grand honncur ;

La siicces, bicn qu'lieurcux, n'eu-tt en rien d'lwnnorable.

Si le del n'eust permis un coup si favorable ;

P'ous n'cn ivrrn pas mains ros bras victorieur,

J'cn vcrray senlcmcnt mon nam plus gluricux. — L. III.

Note 155, p. 47, col. 2. — Qlacidas.

I can make nothing English of this name. Monstrellet
calls him Clacedas and Clasendas. Daniel says the principal
leaders of the English were Suffolk, Talbot, Scales, Eastolffe,
et un nomnie Olacidas ou Clacida.'i, dont le merite suppliant a
la naissanne, I'avoit fait parvenir aux premieres charges de
I'armee.

The importance attached to a second name is well exempli-
fied by an extract in Selden, relating to "tlie creation of
Robert earle of Glocester natural sonne to king Henry I. The
king having speech with Mabile the sole daughter and heire
of Robert Fitz llayman lord of Glocester, told her (as it is re-
ported in an old English rithmical story attributed to one
Robert of Glocester,) that

— he seold his sone to her spousing avonge.

This maid was ther agen, and vvithsaid it long.

The king of sought her suithe ynou, so that atten ende

Mabile him answered, as gode maide and hende,

Syre, heo sede, well ichot, that your hert op me is.

More vor mine eritage than vor my sulve iwis.

So vair eritage as ich abbe, it were me grete shame,

Vor to abbe an louerd, bote he had an tuoname.

Sir Roberd le Fitz Haim my faders name was,

And that ne might noght be his that of his kunne noght

nas.
Therefore, syre, vor Codes love, ne let me non mon owe.
Bote he abbe an tuoname war thotu he he yknowe.
Damaysale, quoth the king, thou seist well in this cas,
Sir Roberd le Fitz Haim thy faders name was ;
And as vayr name he shall abbe, gif nic him may byse

!Sir Roberd le Fitz Roy is name shall be.

t-'ire, quoth this maid tho, thai is vayr name

As woo seilh all his life and of great fame.

Ac wat shold his sone liote thanne and other that of him come,

i^one might hii liote noght thereof nameth gone.

The king understood that the maid ne sede non outrage,

And that Glouccstre was chief of hyre eritage.

Damaseile he syde tho, thi louerd shall abbe a name

Vor him and vor his heirs vayr without blame.

Vor Roberd earle of Glouccstre is name shall be and yis,

Vor he shall be earle of Glouccstre and his heirs ywis.

Sire, quoth this maid tho, well liketh mc tliis,

In this forme ichole that all my thyng be his.

Thus was e".rle of Glouccstre first ymade there

As this Roberd of all thulke that long hyvore were,

This w:is cnleve hundn-d yeare, and in the ninth yeer right

After that ure louerd was in his moder alygt."

Sclden's Titles of Honor.

Note 15fi, p. 48, col. I. — Seeking the inner court.

On entering the outer gate, the next part that presented
itself was the outer ballium or bailey, separated from the inner
ballium by a strong embattled wall and towered gate.

Note 157, p. 48, col. 2. — llie engines shower''d their sheets of
liquid fre.

When the Black Prince attacked the castle of Romorantin,
" there was slain hard by him an English esquire named Jacob
Bernard, whereat the prince was so displeaseil, that he took
his most solemn oath, and sware by his father's soul not to
leave the siege, till he had the castle and all within at his
mercy. Then the assault was renewed much hotter than ever,
till at last the prince saw there was no likelihood of prevailing
that way. Wherefore presently he gave order to raise certain
engines, wherewith they cast combusti'ile matter enflameil
after the manner of wild fire into the base court so fast, and
in such quantities, that at last the whole court seemed to be
one huge lire. Whereupon tho excessive heat prevailed so,
that it took hold of the roof of a great tower, which was
covered with ree<l, and so began to spread over all the castle.
Now therefore when these vali uit captains within saw, that
of necessity they must either submit entirely to the prince's
courtesy, or perish by the most merciless of elements, they
all together came down and yielded themselves absolutely to
his grace." — Joshua Barnes.

Note 158, p. 49, col. 1. — TTie orijlamme of death.

The oritlamme was a standard erected to denote that no
quarter wcmld be given. It is said to have been of red silk,
adorned and beaten with very broad and fair lilies of gold, and
bordered about with gold and vermilion. Le Moyne has
given it a suitable escort :

Ensuite Voriflammc ardent et himinruse,
Marche sur un grand char, dont la forme est affreuae.
Quatre enormrs dragons d'un or ombre ecaillei,
Kt de pourpre, d'azur, et de vert cmaillez,
Dans qutlquc occasion que le besoin le parte.
Lay font unc pompeuse et formidable escorte
iJans leur terribles yeux des grenas arrondis,
De leur feu, de leur sang, font prur aux plus hardia,
Et si ccfea paroist allumir leur audace,
Jlussiparoist ce sang animer leur menace.
Le char roulant sous eux, il semble au roulement,
Qu'i7 /fs/urae voler uvecque. fifflement :
El de lapaudre, en Vair, il scfuit desfumees
A leur bouchcs du vent et du bruit animees.
Philip is said by some historians to have erected the ori-
flamme at Crcssy, where Edward in return raised up his burn-
ing dragon, the Englisli signal for no quarter. The oriflamme
was originally used only in wars against the Infidels, for it
was a sacred banner, and believed to have been sent from
Heaven.

Note 159, p. 49, col. 2. — The tower, the bridge, and all its
midtitudes.
Sunk with a mighty crash.
At this woman's voice amidst the sound of war, the combal

NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC,

81

t'rows very liot. Our men, greatly encouraged by tlio Virgin,
run lieatUonjj to the bastion ami loree a point tbereof ; llien
lire and stones rain so viol ntly, aa the En^'lish being amazed,
lorsako their defences : some are sKiin upon the place, some
tlirow themselves down headlong, and fly lo the tower upon
the bridge. In the end this brave Cilauidas abandons this
quarter, and retires into the base couit u|)on the bridge, and
after him a great number ol" his soldiers. The bridge gre:itly
shaken with artillery, tryed by fire, and overch irged with the
weight ot" this multitude, sinks into the water with a fearful
cry, carrying all this multitude with it. — De Series.

This circumstance lias been magnified into a miracle.
" The French, for the most part, draw the institution of the
order of .St. Michael principally from a purpose that Charles
had to make it, after the apparition of the archangel upon Or-
leans bridge, as the tuteUiry angell of France assisting against
the English in l-i-2S." — Sehlcn's Tillrs vf Honor.

The expressions are somewhat curious in the patent of this
ordre de .Monsieur St. JMichael Archange. I.ouis XI. insti-
tuted it " d ta gloire ct loaanire de Dicu nosire createur tout
puissant, et reverence de la glorieusc vierge Marie, d Vlicnneur
et reverence de St. Michael, premier chevalier, qui par la
querelle de Dieu, batlaile contre I'ancien enemy de I'humain
lignage, ct left tresbucher de Ciel.''

Note ] 60, p. 49, col. 2. — the ascending flames

Blaze up.

Les dictes bastiles et fortresses farent prestement arses etde-
molies jusques en terre, affin que nidles gens de guerre de quel-
conque pays quilz soient ne si peussent plus loger.

Monstrelkt, 11. f. 43.

Note 161, p. 49, col. 2. — Silence itself loas dreadful.

Un cry, que le bcsoin ou la peur fait jetter.

El les airs agitcs les peuvcnt agiler.

Une haleine, un sousper et mesmc !e silence

Auz chefs, comme aui soldate font perdre Vassurance.

Chapelain, L. ix.

Note 162, p. 50, col. 1. — . . . . the proud prelate, that blood-
guilty man.
Who, trembling for the churcli''$ ill-
got wealth.
Bade our Fifth Henry claim the
crown if France.

But the first terrible bloic in England given generally to all
Orders, was in the Lay Parliament, as it is called, which did
wholly Wicclifiie, kept in the twelfth year of king Henry the
Fourth, wherein the A''obles and Commons assembled, signified
to the King, that the temporal possessions of Abbots, Priors, ic.
lewdly spent within the Realm, would suffice to find and
sustain 150 Earls, 1500 Knights, 6200 Esquires, 100 Hospitals,
more than there were. But this motion was raaul'd with the
king's own hand, who dash'd it, personally interposing Himself
contrary to that character, which the jealous Clergi/ had con-
ceived of Him, that coming to the Crown lie would be a great
enemy to the Church. Cut though Henry Plantagenct Uuke
of Lancaster was no friend to the Clergie, perchance to ingra-
tiate himself with the people, yet the same //enri/ king of jEn^-
land. His interest being altered, to strengthen Him with the
considerable power of the Clergy, proved a Patron yea a
Champion to defend them. However we may say, that now
the Am is laid lo the root of the tree of Abbeys ; and this stroke
for the present, though it was so far from hurting the body, that
it scarce pierced the bark thereof, yet bare attempts in such
matters arc important, as putting into people's heads a fea-
sibility of the project formerly conceived altogether impossible.

Few years after, namely, in the second year o{ king Henry
the Fifth, another shrewd thrust wa» made at English Abbeys,
but it was (incly and cleverly put aside by that skilful State-
Fencer Henry Chichcsly Archbishop of Canterbury. For the
former Bill against Abbeys, in full Parliament was revived,
when tlie .\rchbishop minded king Henry of his undoubted
Title to the fair and flourishing kingdom of France. Hereat,
that king who was a spark in Himself, was enflamed to that
design by this Prelate's persuasion ■• and his native courage
11

ran fiercely on the project, especially when clapt on with
conscience and encouragement from a churchman in the law-
fulness thereof. An undertaking of those vast dimensions,
that the greatest covetousness might spread, and highest am-
bition reach itself within the bounds thereof. If to promote
this project, the Abbeys advanced not only large and liberal,
but vast and incredible sums of money, it is no wonder if they
were contented to have their nails pared close to the quick
thereby to save their fingers. Over goes king Henry intc
France, with many martial spirits attending him, so that put-
ting the king upon the seeking of a new Ciowii, kejit the Ab-
bots' old Mitres upon their heads ; and Monasteries tottering
at this timr, were (thank a politic .\rchbishop) refixed on the
firm Ibundations, though this proved rather a reprieve than a
pardon unto them. — Fuller's Church Histonj, B. 6, p. 302.

The archbishop of Bourges explained to the king, in the
hall of the bishop of Winchester, and in the presence of the
dukes of Clarence, Bedford and Gloucester, brothers to the
king, and of the lords of the council, clergy, chivalry and
populace, the objects of his embassy. The archbishop spoke
first in Latin, and then in the Walloon language, so eloquently
and wisely, that both F.nglisli and French who heard him
were greatly surprised. At the conclusion of his harangue
he made offers to the king of a large sum of ready money on
his marriage with the princess Catherine, but on condition
that he would disband the army he had collected at Southamp-
ton, and at the adjacent seaports, to invade France ; and that
by these means an eternal peace would be established between
the two kingdoms.

The assembly broke up when the archbishop had ended his
speech, and the French ambassadors were kindly entertained
at dinner by the king, who then appointed a day for them to
receive his answer to their propositions by the mouth of the
archbishop of Canterbury.

In the course of the archbishop's speech, in which he replied,
article by article, to what the archbishop of Bourires had
offered, he added to some and passed over others of them, so
that he was sharply interrupted by the archbishop of Bourges,
who exclaimed, " I did not say so, but such were my words."
The conclusion, however, was, that unless the king of France
would give, as a marriage-portion with his daughter, the
duchies of Acquitaine, of Xorniandy, of Anjou, of Tours, the
counties of Ponthieu, Maine and Poitou, and every other part
that had formerly belonged to the English monarchs, the king
would not desist from his intended invasion of France, but
would despoil the whole of that kingdom which had been un-
justly detained from him ; and that he should depend on his
sword for the accomi)lishment of the above, and for depriving
king Cliarles of his crown.

Tlio king avowed what the archbishop had said, and added
that thus, with God's aid, he would act ; and promised it on
the word of a king. The archbishop of Bourges then, accord-
ing to tlie custom in France, demanded permission to speak
and said, " O king ! how canst thou, consistently with honor
and justice, thus wish to dethrone and iniquitously destroy
the most Christian king of the French, our very dear lord ana
most excellent of all the kings in Christendom .' Oking! with
all due reverence and respect, dost thou think that he has
ofiVred by me such extent of territory, and so large a sum of
money with his daugliter in marriage, through any fear of thee,
thy subjects or allies .' By no means ; but, moved by pity and
his love of peace, he has made these oft'ers to avoid the shedding
of innocent blood, and that Christian people may not be over-
whelmed in the miseries of war ; for whenever thou shalt
make thy promised attempt he will call upon God, the blessed
Virgin, and on all the saints, making his appeal to them for
the justice of his cause ; and with their aid, and the support
of his loyal subjects and faitliful allies, thou wilt be driven
out of his dominions, or thou wilt be made prisoner, or thou
wilt there suffer death by orders of that just king whose am-
bassadors we are.

" We have now only to intreat of thee that thou wouldst
have us safely conducted out of thy realm ; and that thou
wouldst write to our said king, under thy hand and seal, the
answer which thou bast given to us."

The king kindly granted their request ; and the ambassa-
dors, having received handsome presents, returned by way of
Dover to Calais and thence to Paris.

Monstrclct, vol. iv. p. 129.

82

NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC.

Within a few (lays after the expiration of the truce, king
Henry, whose prei)aration3 were now conijileted, sent one of
his heralds, called (Jlocestcr, to Paris, to deliver letters to the
king, of wliich the contents were as follows.

"To the very nolde prince Charles, our cousin and adver-
sary of France, Henry, by the grace of God, king of England
and of France. To give to every one what is their due, is a
work of inspiration and wise council, very nohle i)rince, our
cousin and adversaiy. The nohli; kingdoms of England and
France were turniorly united, now they are divided. At that
time it was customary for each person to exalt his name hy
glorious victories, and hy this single virtue to extol the honor
of God, to whom holini^ss liolongs, and to give [)eaco to his
church, liy subjecting in battle the enemies of the public weal ;
but alas ! good faith among kindred and brotherly love have
been perverted, and Lot persecutes Abraham by human im-
putation, and Dissention, the mother of Anger, has been
raised from the dead.

" VV'e, however, appeal to the sovereign Judge, who is
neither swayed by prayers nor gifts from doing right, that we
have, from pure affection, done every thing in our power to
preserve the peace ; am! we must now rely on the sword for
regaining what is justly our heritage, and those rights which
have from old time belonged to us ; and we feel such assurance
in our courage, that we will tight till death in the cause of
justice.

" The written law in the book of Deuteronomy ordains,
that before any person commences an attack on a city he shall
first ofi'er terms of pe.ace ; and although violence has detained
from us our rightful inheritances, charity, however, induces us
to attempt, by iiiir means, their recovery; for should justice
be denied us, we may then resort to arms

" And to avoid having our conscience affected by this mat-
ter, we make our personal request to you, and exhort you, by
the bowels of Jesus Christ, to follow the dictates of his evan-
gelical doctrine. Friend, restore what thou owest, for such
is the will of (Jod to prevent the effusion of the blood of man,
who was created in his likeness. Such restitution of rights,
cruelly torn from us, and which we have so frequently de-
manded by our ambassadors, will be agreeable to the supreme
God, and secure peace on earth.

" From our love of peace we were inclined to refuse fifty
thousand golden crowns lately offered us ; for being more
desirous of peace than riches, we have preferred enjoying the
patrimony left us by our venerable ancestors, with our very
dear cousin Catherine, your noble daughter, to iniquitously
multiplying our treasures, and thus disgracing the honor of
our crown, which God forbid !

" Given under our privy seil, in our castle of Southampton,
the 5th day of the month of August."

Mnnslrelet, vol. iv. p. 137.

Not". 163, p. 50, col. 1. — Sure that holy hermit spake

The Almlfrldifs bidding.

While Henry V. lay at the siege of Dreux, an honest hermit
unknown to him, came and told him the great evils he brought
upon Christendom by his unjust aml)ilion, who usurped the
kingdom of France, against all manner of right, and contrary
to the will of God ; wherefore in his holy name he threatened
him with a severe and sudden punishment, if he desisted not
from his enterprise. Henry took this exhortation either as an
idly whimsey, or a suggestion of the Dauphin's, and was but
the more confirmed in his design. But the blow soon followed
the threatening ; for within some few months after, he was
smitten in the fundament with a strange and incurable disease.

Meieray.

Note 164, p. 50, col. 1. — they thought

The spirits of the mothers and their babes
Famish'd at Roan sat on the clouds of
night.

Reseraverat antrum

Tartareus Rector pallens, ut^iie anna nefanda
Spectarent, caperentque sui solatia fati,
Invisas illuc Libyes emiserat umbras :
Undique consedere arvis, nigr&que corond
Injecire diem, versatilis umbra Jugurthce,

Annibalis smvi Manes, captique Syphacis,
Qui nunc cversas seciim Carthaginis arces
Jgnovere Deis, poslquam feralia campi
Prarlia Thapsiaci, et Latios vidn-e furores.

Supplemcntum Lucani, Lib. III.
I am not conscious of having imitated these lines ; but 1
would not lose the opportunity of (luoting so fine a passage
from Thomas May, an author to whom I owe some obligations,
and who is not remembered as his merits deserve. May him-
self has imitated Valerius Flaccus in this passage, though he
has greatly surpassed him.

El. ■patrr oraides casorum. Tartarus umbras,
JSTuhe cava, tandem ad merit<e svcctncula pugnu:
Emittit ; summi nigrescunt culmina mantis.

Note 105, p. 50, col. 1. — nor aught avails

Man unassisted 'gainst infernal powers
To dare the conflict.

To some, says Speed, it may appear more honorable to our
nation, that they were not to be expelled by a human power,
but by a divine, extraordinarily revealing itself.

Note 166, p. 50, col. 3. — By their numbers now made bold in
fear.
JVec pavidam murmur; consensu audacia r.revit,
Tantaque turba metu panarum solvit ab omni.

May, Sup. Lucani.

Note 167, p. 50, col. 2. — Joy ran through all the troops.

In Rymer's Fcr-dera are two proclamations, one " coittra
capilantos et soldarios terniversnntes, incantationibus PuelUe
terrijicalos ;" the other, ^^ defugitivis ab ezercitu quos tcrri-
culamenta PuelUe exunimaverant, arcstandis."

Note 1C8, p. 50, col. 2. — The social bowl.
Ronaard remarks,

Rien n'est meilleur pour I'homme soul-ager

.Hpres le mat, que le boire et manger. — Franciado.

Note 169, p. 51, col. 2. 9 casquetel.

A lighter kind of helmet.

Note 170, p. 51 , col. 2. — Hung from her neck the shield.

The shield was often worn thus. " Among the Frenchmen
there was a young lusty esquire of Gascoigne, named William
Marchant, who came out among the foremost into the field,
well mounted, his shield about his neck, and his spear in his
hand." — Barnes.

This is fre(piently alluded to in romance. " Then the knight
of the burning sword stept forward, and lifting up his arm as
if he would strike Cynocephal on the top of bis head, seized
with his left hand on the shield, which he pulled to him with
so much strength, that plucking it from his neck he brought
him to the ground." — Jimadis dc Greece.

Sometimes the shield was laced to the shoulder.
The shield of the middle ages must not be confounded with
that of the ancients. The knight might easily bear his small
shield around his neck ; but the Grecian warrior stood pro-
tecting his thighs and his legs, his In-east also and his shoulders
witk the body of his broad shield.

Mr/pot)f T£ Kvrjpa; re xarot xat arepva xai (opov;
Ao-rri^of cvpcirji yaarpt KaXvipapcvOf. — Tyrta:us.
But the most convenient shields were used by —
Ccux qu'on voit dcmeurer dans les ties Alandes,
Qui portent pour pavois, dcs escailles si grandes.
Que lors qu'ilfaut camper, le soldat qui s'en sert
En fait comme une hutte, et s'y met d couvcrt. — Alaric.

Note 171, p. 52, col. 1. — An artnet.
The armet or chapelle de fer was an iron hat, occasionally
put on by knights when they retired from the heat of the
battle to take breath, and at times when they could not will,
propriety go unarmed.

JNOTES TO JOAN OF ARC.

Si

NoT£ 172, p. 53, col. 1. — FU'd tutr last kisses on tltcir armed
Itands.
Sed contra (Enotrui pubes
JVon ullas races dtuis aut praxepta rcquirit.
Sat matrcs stimulant, natiquc, et cava supinas
Tendaitum palmas lacrimantiaque ora parcntam.
Ostentant purros, vagittujue incita pulsunt
Curda virUiii, armatis injigunt oscula dcxtris.

SUiiis Itulicus, xii. 587.

Note 173, p. 54, col. 2. — He brake a sullen smile.

" She sternly shook her dewy locks, ami br:ike
A melancholy smile." — Quarks,

Note 174, p. 55, col. 1. — then on the herald

A robe rich-furr'd ami broider'd he bcstow'd.

When the armies of England and France lay in the plain
between Virontbsse and Flemenguere, 1339, Edward sent to
di'mand a day of battle of the Frcncli king. " An herald of
the duke of Gueldres, l)eing well skilled in the French tongue,
was sent on this errand: he rode forth till he came to thf!
French host, where being admitted before the king and bis
council, he spake aloud tliese words, 'Sir, the king of England
is here hard by in the fields, and desires to fight you power
against jiower ; and if you please to appoint him a day he will
not fiiil to meet yon upon the word of a king.' This message
being thus delivered, king Philip yielded either to give or
take battle two days after, and in token of his acceptance of
the news, richly rewarded the herald with furred gowns, and
other gifts bestowed on him, as well by himself as others, the
princes and lords of his host, and so disniissod him again." —
Barnes.

Note 175, p. 55, col. 1. — and at the third long sound

Tlicy ranged them, in their ranlis.

Every man was warned to rise from sleep at the first sound
of the trumpet ; at tha second to arm without delay, and at
the third to take horse in his due place under the colors. —
Barnes.

Note 176, p. 55, col. 1. — To shrive them.

Religious ceromonies seem to have preceded all settled en-
gagements at this period. On the night before the battle of
Cressy, " King Edward made a supper in his royal pavilion for
all his chief barons, lords and captains : at which be appeared
wonderful chearful and pleasant, to the great encouragement
of his people. But when they were all dismissed to tlieir
several quarters, the king himself retired into his private ora-
tory, and came before the altar, and there prostrated himself
to almighty God and devoutly prayed, 'That of his infinite
goodness ho would vouchsafe to look down on the justice of
his cause, and remember his unfeigned endeavors for a recon-
cilement, although they had all been rendered frustrate by his
enemies : that if he should be brought to a battle the next day,
it would please him of bis great mercy to grant him the vic-
tory, as his trust was only in him, and in the right which he
had given him.' Being thus armed with faith, about midnight
he laid himself upon a pallet or mattress to take a little re-
pose ; but he arose again betimes and heard mass, with his
son the young prince, and received absolution, and the body
and blood of his Redeemer, as did the prince also, and most
of the lords and others who were so disposed." — Barnes.

Thus .".Iso before the battle of Agincourt " after prayers and
supplications of the king, his priests and people, done with
great devotion, the king of England in the morning very early
set forth his hosts in array." — Stoice.

Note 177, p. 55, col. 1. — The shield vf dignity.

The roundel. .\ shield too weak for service, which was
borne before the general of an army.

.Note 178, p. 55, col. 1.

— that in nndiminish'd strength

Strong, theij might meet the battle.

The conduct of the English on the morning of the battle of
Cressy is followed in the text. " All things being thus order-
ed every lord and captain under his own banner and pennon,

and the ranks duly settled, the valourous young king mounted
on a lusty white hobby, and with a white wand in his hand,
rode between his two niarshalls from rank to rank, and from
one battalia unto another, exhorting and encouraging every
man that day to defend and maintain his right and honour : and
this bo did with so chearful a countenance, and with such
sweet and obliging words, that even the most faint-hearted
of the army were sufficiently assured thereby. By that time
the English were thus prepared, it was nine o'clock in the
morning, and then the king commanded them all to take their
refreshment of meat and drink, which being done, with small
disturbance they all rejiaircd to their colours again, and then
laid themselves in their order upon the dry and warm grass,
with their bows and helmets by their side, to be more fresh
and vigorous upon the approach of the enemy." — Barnes.

The English before the battle of Agincourt " fell prostrate
to the ground, and committed themselves to God, every of
them tooke in his mouth a little piece of earth, in remem-
brance that they were mortall and made of earth, as also in
remembrance of the holv communion." — Stoice.

Note 179, p. 55, col. 2 — T^ie pennons rolling their long waves
Before the gale, and banners broad and bright.

The pennon was long, ending in two points, the banner
square. " Un seigneur n'etoit banneret et ne pouvoil porter la
banniere quarrce, que lors qu'ilpouvoit entrctenir a ses depens
un certain nombre de chevaliers et d'Ecuyers, avec leur suite a
la guerre: jusquesla son etendard avoit deux queues oufanons,
el quand il devenoit plus puissant, so7i souverain cuupoit lui-
meme les fanons de son etendard, pour le rendre quarrc." —
Tressan.

An incident before the battle of Najara exemplifies this.
" As the two armies approached near together, the prince
went over a little hill, in the descending w hereof he saw-
plainly his enemies marching toward him : wherefore when
the whole army was come over this mountain, he commanded
that there (hey should make an halt, and so fit themselves for
fight. At that instant the lord John Chandos brought his
ensign folded uii, and offered it to the prince, saying, ' Sir,
here is my guidon ; I request your highness to display it
abroad, and to give me leave to raise it this day as my banner ;
for I thank God and your highness, I have lands and posses-
sions sufficient to maintain it withall.' Then the prince took
the pennon, and having cut oflTthe tail, made it a square ban-
ner, and this done, both he and king Don Pedro for the greater
honour, holding it between their hands displayed it abroad, it
being Or, a sharp i)ile Gules : and then the prince delivered
it unto the lord Chandos again, saying, ' Sir John, behold here
is your banner. God send you much joy and honour with it.'
And thus being made a knight banneret, the lord Chandos
returned to the head of his men, and said, ' Here, gentlemen,
behold my banner and yours ! Take and keep it, to your
honour and mine I ' And so they took it with a shout, and
said by the grace of God and St. George they would defend
it to the best of their powers. But the banner remained in
the hands of a gallant English esquire named William Ailos-
try, who bore it all that day, and acquitted himself in the ser-
vice right honourably." — Barnes.

Note 180, p. 55, col. 2. — Vidamr^.

This title frequently occurs in the French Chronicles ; it
was peculiar to France, " the vidame or vicedominus being to
the bishop in his temporals as the vicecomes or vicount an-
ciently to the carle, in bis judicials." — Peter Ileylyn

Note 181, p. 55, coJ. 2. — jSnd silken sureoats to the mid-day
sun
Glittering.

Joshua Barnes seems to have been greatly impressed with
the splendor of such a spectacle. " It was a glorious and
ravishing sight, no doubt," says he, " to behold these two
armies standing thus regularly embattled in the field, their
banners and standards waving in the wind, their proud horses
harded, and kings, lords, knights, and esquires richly armed,
and all shining in their sureoats of satin and embroidery."

Thus also at I'oicticrs, " there you might have beheld a most

84

NOTI-:S TO JOAN OF ARC.

beautiful si^lit of I'.iir harness, of sliiiiin^' sleel, feiitliered
srcata of gliUoring helmets, ;ind the rich eiiihroiilery of silken
surcoats of arms, together with golden standards, banners and
pennons gloriously moving in the air."

And at Najara " the sun being now risen, it was a ravishing
sight to behold the armies, and the sun relleeting from their
bright steel and shining armour. Tor in fliose days the cav-
alry were generally armed in mail or polished steel at all
points, and besides that, the nobility wore over their armour
rich surcoats of silk and satin embroidery, whereon was curi-
ously sticlit or beaten, the arms of their house, whether in
colour or metal."

Note 182, p. .55, col. 2. — For not to brutal strength they

deem'd it right
To trust their country's weal.

J^Tos anccstres, ct notamment du temps de la guerre des Aiiglois,
en combats solr.mncls etjournees assignees, se metloient la jdus-
part du temp tons d pied ; jiour ne se fier d autre chose (ju'd
leur force propre et vigueur de Icur courage et dc leur membres,
de chose si chcrc que I'honneur st la vie. — Montaigne, Liv. i.
c. 48.

In the battle of Patay, Monstrellet says, " Ics Frangois
moult de pres mirdnt pied d terrc, et descendirent la plus grand
partie de leur chcvaulx."

In El Cavallero Determinado, an allegorical romance trans-
lated from the French of Olivier de la Marche by Hernando
de Acuna, Barcelona, 15G5, this custom is referred to by Un-
derstanding, when giving the knight directions for his coml)at
with Atropos.

En esto es vii parccer ^

Que en cacallo no tcjies ;
Por to qiial has de entender

Qkc de ninguno conjics
Ta bjmosna y bicn hazcr.

Note 183, p. 55, col. 2. — Their javelins shortened to a wieldy
length.

Thus at Poictiers, " the three battails being all ready ranged
in the field, and every lord in his duo place under his own
banner, command was given that all men should put oft" their
spurs, and cut their spears to five foot length, as most com-
modious for such who had left their horses." — Barnes.

Note 184, p. 56, col. 1. — Ilrasvelger starting.

Hrwsvclger vacatur

Q,ui sedet in eztremitate cceli,

Gigas eiuvias amictus aquihe :

Ex ejus alls

Ferunt venire ventum

Omnes super homines. — Vafthrudnismal.

Where the Heaven's remotest bound
With darkness is encompassed round.
There Hrtcsvelger sits and swings
The tempest from his eagle wings.
The Edda of Samund, translated by .^mos Cottle.

Among the idols of Aitutaki, (one of the Hervey Islands,)
Sfnt home among other trophies of the same kind to the Alis-
eienary Museum, is the God of Thunder, Taau. The natives
used to believe that when Taau was flying abroad. Thunder
was produced by the flapi)ing of his wings. — fVUliams's Mis-
sionary Enterprises in the South Sea Island.^, p. 109.

At the promontory of .Malea on the ruins of the Temple of
Ajiollo, tliero is a chapel built to the honor of Michael the
archangel. Here we could not but laugh at the foolish super-
stition of the sailors, who say, when the wind blows from that
place, that it is occasioned by the violent motion of Michael's
wings, because forsooth, be is painted with wings. And for
that reason, when they sail by Michael they pray to him tliat
ho may hold his wings still. — Bamngarten.

Note 185, p. 50, col. 1. —Or with the lance protended from his
front.

In a combat fought in ?mithfield, 14G7, between the lord
Scales and the bastard of Burgoyne, " the lord Scales' horse

had on his chafron a long sharp pike of Steele, and as the two
champions coaped together, the same horse thrust his pike
into the nostrills of the bastard's horse, so that for very paine,
he mounted so high that be fell on the one side witli his mas-
ter." — Stowc.

This weapon is mentioned by Lope de Vega, and by an old
Scotch poet.

Uuicornia el cavallo parecia

Con elfuerte pyraniide delunie.
Que en medio del bogul rrsplundecia
Coma sifaera punta dc diamante.

Jerusalen Covquistada, I. 10.

His horse in fyne sandel was trapped to the hele,
And, in his cheveron biforne,
Stode, as an unicorne,
Als sharp as a tborne,
An anias of stele.

Sir Gawan and Sir Galaron.

Florisel found this part of his horse's armour of good ser-
vice, when in the combat of eighteen against eighteen, he en-
countered the king of the Scythians, o-fant dcmesure ; il che-
vauchoit un grand animal de sonpays, duqacl nous ne sgavuns
le nom .- aussi etoit-il tant corpulent ct membru, qu'un n'cu.'it
sgeufiiurnir rous.iin qui Peusi pen porter. The first encounter
fat tris belle jouste d voir, et aujomdre des corps mourut treiie
cherauT, compris Vanimal du Roy de Scythie, qui fut si lourdc-
ment recontre par le destrier de Florisel, portant hardes de fer,
et 1/ne poinete aceree sur le chaiifrain qu'ilfourra si avantparmy
Icsflanrz de ceste grosse beste, qn'il attei-race avec les autres, et
lajumbe de son ma'istre dessaui. Smatlis, L. x. ff. 51, 52.

The Abyssinians use it at this day ; Bruce says it is a very
troublesome useless piece of their armor.

Note 186, p. 56, col. 2. — To snatch the shield of death.

Thus did Juba catch up the shield of death to defend him-
self from ignominy. — Cleopatra.

Note 167, p. 56, col. 2. — T%eir tower of strength.
JluTCp yap piv TTvpycv cv O(p0a\poiaiv opwaiv. — Tyrtaus.

Quarles has made this expression somewhat ludicrous by
calling Samson

Great army of men, the wonder of whose power
Gives thee the title of a walking tower.

Note 188, p. 57, col. 1. — and when the boar's head . . .

Smoked on the Christmas board.

Two carols for this occasion are preserved in Mr. Ritson's
valuable collection of Ancient Songs. The first of these, here
alluded to, is as follows:

Caput apri defero
Reddens laudes domino.

The bore's heed in hand bring I
AVilh garlands gay and rosemary,
I pray you all synge merely
Qui cstis in convivio.

The bore's heed I undcrstande
Is the cbefe servyce in this lande,
Loke where ever it be fande
Sercite cum canlico.

Be gladde lordes bothe more and lasse
For this nath ordeyned our stcwardc,
To chere you all this christmasse
The bore's heed with mustarde.

When Henry II. bad his eldest son crowned as fellow with
him in the kingdom, upon the day of coronation, king Henry,
the father, served his son at the table as sewer, bringing up
the bore's head with trumpets before it, according to the man
ncr ; whereupon (according to the old adage,

Immutant mores homines cum dantur honorcs)

the young man conceiving a pride in his heart, beheld the
atanders-by with a more stately countenance than be had been
wont. The archbishop of York who sat by him, marking bis

NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC.

85

beliiiviour, luriu'il unto him iiinl s;iiil, " Be glad, my good son,
there is not another prince in the world that hath such a sewer
ut his I ihle." I'o this the new king answered as it were dis-
daintiilly lluis: " Wiiy doest thou marvel at that? my father
in doing it lliinkoth it not more than hecomoth him, lie being
born ol" princely blood oiily on the mother's side, serveth me
that am a king born, having both a king to my father and a
queen to my mother." Thus the young man of an evil and
perverse nature, was pulled ui)in pride by hiii father's unseemly
doings.

lint the king bis fitber hearing his talk was very sorrowful
in his mind, and said to the urcbbisbop softly in his ear, " It
rcpenteth me, it repentcth me, my lord, that I have thus ad-
vanced tho boy." For ho guessed hereby what a one he would
prove afterward, that shewed himself so disobedient and for-
ward already. — Uolinshcd.

Note 189, p. 57, col. 1. — his old limbs

Arc nut like yours so supple in Vie flight.

Tuuj it rraXaiOTcpovs, lov ovKcrt yovvaT' e\a<ppa,
Ml) KaTaXciTTOfTCi ipcvyCTC rovi ycpatovg.

Ataxpov yap iri tovto ptra npopaxotai ncTovra,
KciaOat vpoaOc vcmv avipa TraXaporcpov,

Hin XcvKov txovra Kaprj, iroXiov re yevtiov,
Qi'itov aiTOTTveiovT' aXKipov cv Kovir}. — Tyrtteus.

Note 190, p. 57, col. 2. — He from the saddle-bow his falchion
caught.

In the combat between Franciis and Phouere, Ronsard says —

— de la main Icurs coutclas trouvcrent
Bien aiguisez gut de Vargon pendoyent.

On this passage the commentator observes, " I'autheur arme
CCS deux chevaliers d la mode de nos gendarmes Fraw^oli, la
lance en la main, la coutelace ou la mace d I'argon, et Pespc can
coste.

Thus Desmarests says of the troops of Clovis —

A tons pend de Vargon, d leur mode guerrierre,
Et la hache tranchante, et la inasse meurtriere.

And when Clovis, on foot and without a weapon, hears the
shrieks of a woman, he sees his horse,

Jette fail sur Vargon, et void luire sa hache.

Lope de Vega speaks of the sword being carried in the same
manner, when he describes Don Juan de Aguila as —

desatando del argon la espada.

Note 191, p. 57, col. 2. — she bared

The lightning of her sword.

Desnudo el rayo de la ardiente espada.

Jemsalen Conquistada.

Note 192, p. 57, col. 2. — The sword of Talbot.

Talbot's sword, says Camden, was found in the river of Dor-
don, and sold by a peasant to an armorer of Bouideaux, witli
this incription,

Sum Talboti, M. UII. C. XLTII

Pro vinccre ininiicos mcos.

But pardon the Latin, for it was not his, but his cami)ing
chaplain's. — A sword with bad Latin upon it, but good steel
«ithin it, says Fuller.

It was not uncommon to bear a motto upon the sword.
Lope de Vega describes that of Aguilar as bearing inlaid in
gold, a verse of the psalms. It was, he says,

Mas famo.ia quefue de hombre ccnida,
Para ocasiones del honor guardada,

Y en ultima drfcnsa de la vida,
Y dcsde cuya guamicion dorada

Hasta la punta la canal brunida

Tenia escrito de David un verso.
J^ietadv dc oro en el azcro terso.

Jerasalen Conquistada.

Note 193, p. 57, eol. 2. — Fastolffe, all fierce and haughty as
he was.

In ihe Paston letters, published by Mr. Fenn, Fiistolffe ap-
pears in a very unfavorable light. Henry Windsor writes
thus of him, " bit is not unknown that cruclle and venglblc he
huth hyn ever, and for the most part witli oute pite and mercy
I can no more, but rude et corripc eum, for truly he cannot
bryng about his maticrs in this word (world) for the word is
not lor him. I suppose it wolnot chaunge yett be likelencs,
but i beseche you sir help not to amend hym onely, but every
other man yf ye kno any mo mysse disposed."

The order of the garter was taken from Fastolffe for liis
conduct at Patay. He suffered a more material loss in the
money ho expended in the service of the state. In 1455,
4083/. 15. 7. were due to him for costs and charges durii>g his
services in France, " whereof the sayd Fastolffe bath had
nouther payement nor assignation." So be complains.

Note 194, p. 57, col. 2. — Battlc-aze.

In a battle between the Burgundians and Dauphinois near
Abbeville (1421) Monstrellet especially notices the conduct
of John Villain, who had that day been made a knight. He
was a nobleman from Flanders, very tall, and of great bodily
strength, and was mounted on a good horse, holding a battk-
aie in both hands Thus he puslied into the thickest part of
the battle, and throwing the bridle on his horse's neck, gave
such blows on all sides with his battle-axe, that whoever was
struck was instantly unhorsed and wounded past recovery.
In this way he met Poton de Xaintrailles, who, after Ihe
battle was over, declared the wonders he did, and that he got
out of his reach as fast as he could. — Vol. v. p. 294

Note 195, p. 58, col. 1. — The b uclder, now splinter' d with many

a stroke.

L'ecu de^ chevaliers ctait ordinairemenl un bouclier de forme
d pcu pris triangulaire, large par le haul pour couvrir le corps,
et se terminant en pointe par le bas, afin d'Stre mains lourd. On
les faisait de bois qu'on recouvrait avec du cuir bouilli, avcc dcs
nerfs ou autrcs viatieres dares, mais jamais de fer ou d'acier.
Seulement il ctait pcrmis, pour les empScher d'etre coupes trap
aiscmcnt par les epics, d'y mcltre un cercle d'or, d'argent, ou
defer, qui les entourat. — Le Orand.

Note 19G, p. 53, col. 2. — Threw o'er the slaughtered chief his
blazon'd coat.

This fact is mentioned in Andrews's History of England.
I have merely ver>iified the original expressions. " The herald
of Talbot sought out his body among the slain. ' Alas, my
lord, and is it you ! I pray God pardon you all your misdoings.
I have been your officer of arms forty years and more : it is
time that I should surrender to you the ensigns of my office.'
Thus saying, with the tears gushing from his eyes, he threw
his coat of arms over the corpse, thus performing one of the
ancient rites of sepulture."

Note 197, p. 59, col. 1. — Pour'd on the monarch's head the
mystic oil.

" The Frenchmen wonderfully reverence this oyle ; and at
the coronation of their kings, fetch it from the church where
it is kepi, witli great solemnity. For it is brought (saith
Sleiden in his Conmientarics) by the prior sitting on a white
ambling palfrey, and attended by bis monkes ; the archbishop
of the town (Uheims) and such bishops as are present, going
to the church door to meet it, and leaving for it with the
prior some gage, and the king, when it is by the urcbbisbop
brought to the altar, bowing himself before it with great
reverence." — Peter Heylyn.

36

THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS.

^TJt Tiuion of tf^t J^aitr of erUans*

In the first edition of Joan of Arc this Vision
formed the ninth book, allegorical machinery
having been introduced throughout tlie poem
as originally written. All that remained of
such machinery w.as expunged in the second
edition, and the Vision was then struck out, as
no longer according with the general design.

THE FIRST BOOK.

Orleans was hush'd in sleep. Stretch'd on her

couch
The delegated Maiden lay; with toil
Exhausted, and sore anguish, soon she closed
Her heavy eyelids ; not reposing then,
For busy phantasy in other scenes
Awaken'd : whether that superior powers,
By Vv'ise permission, prompt the midnight dream.
Instructing best the passive faculty ; '
Or that the soul, escaped its fleshly clog,
Flies free, and soars amid the invisible world,
And all things are that seem"

Along a moor.
Barren, and wide, and drear, and desolate.
She roam'd, a wanderer through the clieerless night.
Far through the silence of the unbroken plain
The bittern's boom was heard ; hoarse, heavy, deep.
It made accordant music to the scene.
Black clouds, driven fast before the stormy wind,
Swept shadowing; through their broken folds the

moon
Struggled at times with transitory ra}'.
And made the moving darkness visible.
And now arrived beside a fenny lake
She stands, amid whose stagnate waters, hoarse
The long reeds rustled to the gale of night.
A time-worn bark receives the Maid, impell'd
By powers unseen ; then did the moon display
Where through the crazy vessel's yawning side
The muddy waters oozed. A Woman guides.
And spreads the sail before tlie wind, which moan'd
As melancholy mournful to her ear,
As ever by a dungeon'd wretch was heard
Howling at evening round his prison towers.
Wan was the pilot's countenance, her eyes
Hollow, and her sunk cheeks were furrow'd deep,
Channell'd by tears ; a few gray locks hung down
Beneath her hood ; and through the Maiden's veins
Chill crept the blood, when, as the night-breeze

pass'd.
Lifting her tatter'd mantle, coil'd around
She saw a serpent gnawing at her heart.

The plumeless bats with short, shrill note flit by.
And the night-raven's scream came fitfully.
Borne on the hollow blast. Eager the Maid
Look'd to the shore, and now upon the bank
Leapt, joyful to escape, yet trembling still
In recollection.

There, a mouldering pile
Stretch'd its wide ruins, o'er the plain below
Casting a gloomy shade, save where the moon
Shone through its fretted windows : the dark yew,
Witliering with age, branch'd there its naked roots,
And there the melancholy cypress rear'd
Its head ; the earth was heaved with many a mound,
And here and tliere a half-demolish'd tomb.

And now, amid the ruin's darkest shade.
The Virgin's eye beheld where pale blue flames
Rose wavering, now just gleaming from the earth,
And now in darkness drown'd. An aged man
Sate near, seated on what in long-past days
Had been some sculptured monument, now fallen
And half-obscured by moss, and gather'd heaps
Ofwither'd yew-leaves and earth-mouldering bones.
His eye was large and rayless, and fix'd full
Upon the Maid ; the tomb-fires on his face
Shed a blue light; his face was of the hue
Of death; his limbs were mantled in a shroud.
Then with a deep heart- terrifying voice,
Exclaim'dthe spectre : " Welcome to these realms,
These regions of Despair, O thou whose steps
Sorrow hath guided to my sad abodes !
Welcome to my drear empire, to this gloom
Eternal, to this everlasting night,
Where never morning darts the enlivening ray.
Where never shines the sun, but all is dark.
Dark as the bosom of their gloomy King."

So saying, he arose, and drawing on,
Her to the abbey's inner ruin led,
Resisting not liis guidance. Through the roof
Qnce fretted and emblazed, but broken now
In part, elsewhere all open to the sky.
The moon-beams enter'd, checker'd here, and here
With unimpeded light. The ivy twined
R,ound the dismantled columns; imaged forms
Of saints and warlike chiefs, moss-canker'd now
And mutilate, lay strown upon the ground.
With crumbled fragments, crucifixes fallen,
And rusted trophies. Meantime overhead
Roar'd the loud blast, and from the tower the ow
Scream'd as the tempest shook her secret nest.
He, silent, led her on, and often paused,
And pointed, that her eye might contemplate
At leisure the drear scene.

He draoror'd her on

BOOK I.

THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS.

87

Tliroujrli a low iron door, down brokon stairs;
Tlii'ii a cold horror through the Maiden's I'ranie
Crept, for she stood amid a vault, and saw,
By the sepulchral lamp's dim, glarinif lif^ht.
The fragments of the dead.

" Look here ! " he cried,
" Damsel, look here ! survey tliis house of death ;
O, soon to tenant it ; soon to increase
These trophies of mortality — for hence
Is no return. Gaze here ; behold this skull.
These eyeless sockets, and these unflesh'd jaws.
That with tlieir ghastly grinning seem to mock
Tliy perishable cluinns ; for thus thy check
Mustmoulder. Childof grief ! shrinks not thy soul.
Viewing these horrors.- trembles not thy heart
At the dread thought that here its life's-blood soon
Shall stagnate, and the rinely-fibred frame.
Now warm in life and feeling, mingle soon
With the cold -clod.' thing horrible to think, —
Yet in thought only, for reality
Is none of suffering here; here all is peace ;
No nerve will throb to anguish in the grave.
Dreadful it is to think of losing life,
Uut having lost, knowledge of loss is not.
Therefore no ill. Oh, wherefore then delay
To end all ills at once .' "

So spake Despair.
The vaulted roof echoed his hollow voice,
And all again was silence. Quick her heart
Panted. He placed a dagger in her hand.
And cried again, " (31i, wliereforc then delay 1
One blow, and rest forever ! " On the fiend
Dark scowl'd the Virgin with indignant eye,
And threw the dagger down. He next his heart
Replaced the murderous steel, and drew the Maid
Along the downward vault.

The damp earth gave
A dim sound as they pass'd : the tainted air
Was cold, and heavy with unwholesome dews.
" Behold ! " the fiend exclami'd, " how loathsomely
The fleshly remnant of mortality
Moulders to clajM " then fixing his broad eye
Full on her face, he pointed where a corpse
Lay livid ; she beheld with horrent look
The spectacle abhorr'd by living man.

" Look here ! " Despair pursued ; " this loathsome
mass
Was once as lovely, and as full of life
As, Damsel, thou art now. Those deep-sunk eyes
Once beam'd the mild light of intelligence,
And where thou seest the pamper'd fiesh-worm trail.
Once the white bosom heaved. She fondly thouglit
That at the hallow 'd altar, soon the priest
Should bless her coming union, and the torch
Its joyful lustre o'er the hall of joy.
Cast on her nuptial evening : earth to earth
That priest consign'd her, for her lover went
By glory lured to war, and perish'd tiiere ;
Nor she endured to live. Ila I fades thy cheek .'
Dost tiiou then, Maiden, tremble at the tale ■'
Look here I behold the youthful paramour I
The self-devoted hero I "

Fearfully [face

The Maid look'd down, and saw the well-known

Of Theodori'. In thoughts unsi)eakal)le.
Convulsed with liorror, o'er her face she clasp'd
Her cold, damp hands. " Shrink not," the phantom

cried ;
" Gaze on ! " and unrelentingly he grasp'd
Her fjuivering arm : " this lifeless, mouldering clay.
As well lliou know'st, was warm with all the glow
Of youth and love ; this is the hand that clefl
Proud Salisbury's crest, now motionless in death,
Unable to protect the ravaged frame
From the foul ofi'spring of mortality
Tiiatfeod on heroes. Though long years were thine,
Yet never more would life reanimate
This slaughter'd youth ; slaugliter'd for thee ! for

thou
Didst lead him to the battle from his home,
Where else he had survived to good old age :
In thy defence he died: strike then I destroy
Remorse with life."

The Maid stood motionless.
And, wistloss what she did, with trembling hand
Received the dagger. Starting then, she cried,
" Avaunt, Despair! Eternal Wisdom deals
Or peace to man, or misery, for his good
Alike design'd ; and shall the creature cry,
'Why hast thou done this .'' ' and with impious pride
Destroy the life God gave.'"

The fiend rejoin'd,
" And thou dost deem it impious to destroy
The life God gave .' What, Maiden, is the lot
Assign'd to mortal man ? born but to drag.
Through life's long jjilgrimage, the wearying load
Of being ; care-corroded at the heart ;
Assail'd by all the numerous train of ills
That flesh inherits ; till at length worn out.
This is his consummation ! — Think again I
What, Maiden, canst thou hope from lengthen'd life.
But lengthen'd sorrow .' If protracted long.
Till on the bed of death thy feeble limbs
Stretch out their languid length, oh, tliink what

thoughts,
What agonizing feelings, in that hour.
Assail tiie sinking heart ! slow beats the pulse.
Dim grows the eye, and clammy drops bedew
The shuddering frame ; then in its mightiest force,
Mightiest in impotence, the love of life
Seizes the throbbing heart ; the faltering lips
Pour out the impious prayer that fain would change
Tlie Unchangeable's decree ; surrounding friends
Sob round the sufferer, wet his cheek with tears,
And all he loved in life imbitters death.

" Such, Maiden, are the pangs that wait the
hour
Of easiest dissolution ! yet weak man
Resolves, in timid piety, to live;
And veiling Fear in Superstition's garb.
He calls her Resignation !

" Coward wretch !
Fond coward, thus to make his reason war
Against liis reason ! Insect as he is,
This sport of chance, tiiis being of a day,
Whose whole existence the next cloud may blast.
Believes himself the care of heavenly powers;
That God regards man, miserable man,

88

THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS.

BOOK I.

And preaching thus of power and providence,
Will crush the reptile that may cross his path !

" Fool that thou art I the Being that permits
Existence, gives to man the worthless boon ;
A goodly gift to those who, fortune-blest,
Bask in the sunshine of prosperity.
And such do well to keep it. But to one
Sick at the heart with misery, and sore
With many a hard, unuierited affliction,
It is a hair that chains to wretchedness
The slave who dares not burst it !

" Thinkest thou.
The parent, if his child should unrecall'd
Return and fall upon his neck, and cry,
' Oh ! the wide world is comfortless, and full
Of fleeting joys and heart-consuming cares;
I can be only happy in my home
With thee — my friend! — my father!' Thinkest

thou.
That he would thrust him as an outcast forth .'
Oh ! he would clasp the truant to his heart,
And love the trespass."

Whilst he spake, his eye
Dwelt on the Maiden's cheek, and read her soul
Struo-gling within. In trembling doubt she stood,
Even as a wretch, whose famish'd entrails crave
Supply, before him sees the poison'd food
In greedy horror.

Yet, not silent long,
"Eloquent tempter, cease! " the Maiden cried;
" What though affliction be my portion here,
Thinkest thou I do not feel high thoughts of joy,
Of heart-ennobling joy, when I look back
Upon a life of duty well perform'd,
Then lift mine eyes to heaven, and there in faith
Know my reward? — I grant, were this life all.
Was there no morning to the tomb's long night.
If man did mingle with the senseless clod.
Himself as senseless, then wert thou indeed
A wise and friendly comforter ! — But, fiend.
There is a morning to the tomb's long night,
A dawn of glory, a reward in heaven.
He shall not gain who never merited.
If thou didst know the worth of one good deed
In life's last hour, thou wouldst not bid me lose
The precious privilege, while life endures
To do my Father's will. A mighty task
Is mine, — a glorious call. France looks to me
For her deliverance.

" Maiden, thou hast done
Thy mission here," the unbaffled fiend replied :
" The foes are fled from Orleans : thou, perchance
Exulting in the pride of victory,
Forgettest him who perish'd : yet albeit
Thy harden'd heart forget the gallant youth,
That hour allotted canst thou not escape,
That dreadful hour, when contumely and shame
Shall sojourn in thy dungeon. Wretched Maid !
Destined to drain the cup of bitterness,
Even to its dregs, — England's inhuman chiefs
Shall scoff" thy sorrows, blacken thy pure fame.
Wit-wanton it with lewd barbarity.
And force such burning blushes to the cheek
Of virgin modesty, that thou shalt wish

The earth might cover thee. In that last liour.
When thy bruis'd breast shall lieave beneath the

chains
That link thee to the stake, a spectacle
For the brute multitude, and thou shalt hear
Mockery more painful than tlie circling flames
Which then consume thee ; wilt thou not in vain
Then wish my friendly aid .-' then wish thine ear
Had drank my words of comfort? that thy hand
Had grasp' d the dagger, and in death preserved
Insulted modesty ? "

Her glowing cheek
Blush'd crimson ; her wide eye on vacancy
Was fix'd ; her breath short panted. The cold fiend
Grasping her hand, exclaim'd, "Too timid Maid,
So long repugnant to the healing aid
My friendship proft'ers, now shalt thou behold
The allotted length of life."

He stamp'd the earth
And dracro-ing a huge coflin as his car,
Two Gouls came on, of form more fearful-foul
Than ever palsied in her wildest dream
Hag-ridden Superstition. Then Despair
Seized on the Maid whose curdling blood stood still
And placed her in the seat, and on they pass'd
Adown the deep descent. A meteor light
Shot from the demons, as they dragged along
The unwelcome load, and mark'd their brethren

feast
On carcasses.

Below, the vault dilates
Its ample bulk. " Look here ! " — Despair addrest
The shuddering Virgin ; " see the dome of Death ! "
It was a spacious cavern, hewn amid
The entrails of the earth, as though to form
A grave for all mankind : no eye could reach
Its distant bounds. There, throned in darkness,

dwelt
The unseen power of Death.

Here stopt the Gouls,
Reaching the destined spot. The fiend stept out.
And from the coffin as he led the Maid,
Exclaim'd, " Where mortal never stood before.
Thou standest: look around this boundless vault;
Observe the dole that Nature deals to man,
And learn to know thy friend."

She answer'd not.
Observing where the Fates their several tasks
Plied ceaseless. "Mark how long the shortest web
Allow'd to man ! " he cried ; " observe how soon,
Twined round yon never-resting wheel, they change
Their snowy hue, darkening through many a shade,
Till Atropos relentless shuts the shears."

Too true he spake, for of the countless threads.
Drawn from the heap, as white as unsunn'd snow.
Or as the spotless lily of the vale.
Was never one beyond the little span
Of infancy untainted ; few there were
But lightly tinged : more of deep crimson hue,
Or deeper sable dyed.^ Two Genii stood.
Still as the web of being was drawn forth.
Sprinkling their powerful drops. From ebon urn.
The one unsparing dash'd the bitter drops
Of woe ; and as he dash'd, his dark-brown brow

BOOK II.

THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS,

89

Rolax'd to a hard smile. Tlio milder form

Shed les8 profusely there his lesser store ;

Sometimes with tears increasing the scant boon,

Compassionating man ; and happy he

Who on liis thread those precious tears receives ;

If it be happiness to have the pulse

That tiirobs with pity, and in such a world

Of wretchedness, the generous heart that aches

With anguish at the sight of human woe.

To her the fiend, well hoping now success,
" This is thy thread ; observe how short the span ;
And little doth tlie evil Genius spare
His bitter tincture there." The Maiden saw
Calinlv. "Now gaze I "the tempter fiend exclaim'd,
And placed again the poniard in her hand,
For Superstition, with a burning torch,
Approacird tlie loom. " This, Damsel, is thy fate !
The hour draws on — now strike the dagger home !
Strike now, and be at rest ! "

The Maid replied,
" Or to prevent or change the will of Heaven,
Impious 1 strive not : let that will be done ! "

THE SECOND BOOK.

She spake, and lo I celestial radiance beam'd
Amid the air, such odors wafting now
As erst came blended with tlie evening gale.
From Eden's bowers of bliss. An angel form
Stood by the Maid ; his wings, ethereal white,
Flash'd like the diamond in the noon-tide sun.
Dazzling her mortal eye : all else appear'd
Her Theodore.

Amazed she saw : the fiend
Was fled, and on her ear the well-known voice
Sounded, tliough now more musically sweet
Than ever yet had tlirill'd her soul attuned.
When eloquent affection fondly told
The day-dreams of delight.

" Beloved Maid !
Lo 1 I am with thee, still thy Theodore !
Hearts in the holy bands of love combined,
Death has no power to sever. Thou art mine !
A little while and thou shalt dwell with me.
In scenes where sorrow is not. Cheerily
Tread thou the path that leads thee to the grave.
Rough though it be and painful, for the grave
Is but the threshold of eternity.

"Favor'd of Heaven, to thee is given to view
These secret realms. The bottom of the abyss
Thou treadest, Maiden. Here the dungeons are
Where bad men learn repentance. Souls diseased
Must have their remedy ; and where disease
Is rooted deep, the remedy is long
Perforce, and painful."

Thus the spirit spake.
And led the Maid along a narrow path.
Dark gleaming to the light of far-off flames,
More dread than darkness. Soon the distant sound
Of clanking anvils, and the lengthen'd breath
12

Provoking fire are heard; and now they reach
A wide e.xpanded den where all arovind
Tremendous furnaces, with hellish blaze.
Were burning. At the heaving bellows stood
The meagre form of Care ; and as he blew
To augment the fire, the fire augmented scorch'd
His wretched limbs; sleepless forever thus
He toil'd and loil'd, of toil no end to know
But endless toil and never-ending woe.

An aged man went round the infernal vault.
Urging his workmen to their ceaseless task ;
White were his locks, as is the wintry snow
On hoar Plinlimmon's head. A golden staff
Ilis stei).s supported : powerful talisman.
Which whoso feels shall never feel again
The tear of pity, or the tiirob of love.
Touch'd but by this, the massy gates give way,
The buttress trembles, and the guarded wall.
Guarded in vain, submits. Him heathens erst
Had deified, and bowed the suppliant knee
To Plutus. Nor are now his votaries few.
Even though our blessed Savior iiatli himself
Told us, that easier through the needle's eye
Shall the huge camel pass,'* than the rich man
Enter the gates of heaven. "Ye cannot serve
Your God and worship Mammon."

" Mission'd Maid ! "
So spake the spirit, " know that these, whose hands
Round each white furnace j)ly the unceasing toil,
Were Mammon's slaves on earth. They did not

spare
To wring from poverty the hard-earn'd mite ;
They robb'd the orphan's pittance ; they could see
Want's asking eye unmoved; and therefore these,
Ranged round the furnace, still must persevere
In Mammon's service, scorch'd by these fierce fires,
Nor seldom by the overboiling ore
Caught; yet retaining still, to punishment
Converted here, their old besetting sin.
Often impatiently to quench their thirst
Unquenchable, large draughts of molten gold *
They drink insatiate, still with pain renew'd.
Pain to destroy."

So saying, her he led
Forth from the dreadful cavern to a cell
Brilliant with gem-born light. The rugged walls
Part gleam'd with gold, and part with silver ore
In milder radiance shone. The carbuncle
There its strong lustre like the flamy sun
Shot forth irradiate ; from the earth beneath.
And from the roof there stream'd a diamond light
Rubies and amethysts their glows commix'd
With the gay topaz, and the softer ray-
Shot from the sapphire, and the emerald's nue.
And bright pyropus.

There, on golden seats,
A numerous, sullen, melancholy train
Sat silent. "Maiden, these," said Theodore,
"Are they who let the love of wealth absorb
All other passions ; in their souls that vice
Struck deeply-rooted, like the poison-tree
That with its shade spreads barrenness around.
These, Maid ! were men by no atrocious crime
Blacken'd, no fraud, nor ruflian violence ;

90

THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS.

BOOK II.

Men of fair dealing, and respectable
On earth, but such as only i'or themselves
Heap'd uj) their treasures, deeming all their wealth
Their own, and given to them, by partial Heaven,
To bless them only : therefore here they sit,
Possessd of gold enough, and by no pain
Tormented, save the knowledge of the bliss
They lost, and vain repentance. Here they dwell,
Loathing these useless treasures, till the hour
Of general restitution."

Thence they past,
And now arriv'd at such a gorgeous dome,
As even the pomp of Eastern opulence
Could never equal : wandered through its halls
A numerous train ; some with the red-swollen eye
Of riot, and intemperance-bloated cheek ;
Some pale and nerveless, and with feeble step.
And eyes lack-lustre.

" Maiden ! " said her guide.
These are the wretched slaves of Appetite,
Curst with tlieir wish cnjoy'd. The epicure
Here pampers his foul frame, till the pall'd sense
Loathes at the banquet ; the voluptuous here
Plunge in the tempting torrent of delight.
And sink in misery. All they wish'd on earth
Possessing here, whom have they to accuse
But their own folly, for the lot they chose .'
Yet, for that these injured themselves alone.
They to the house of Penitence may hie.
And, by a long and painful regimen.
To wearied Nature her exhausted powers
Restore, till they shall learn to form the wish
Of wisdom, and Almighty Goodness grants
That prize to him who seeks it."

Whilst he spake,
The board is spread. With bloated paunch, and

eyes
Fat-swollen, and legs whose monstrous size dis-
graced
The human form divine, their caterer,
Hight Gluttony, set forth the smoking feast.
And by his side came on a brother form,
With fiery cheek of purple hue, and red
And scurfy-while, mix'd motley ; his gross bulk.
Like some huge hogshead shapen'd, as applied.
Him liad antiquity with mystic rites
Adored ; to him the sons of Greece, and thine,
Imperial Rome, on many an altar pour'd
The victim blood, with god-like titles graced,
Bacchus, or Dionusus ; son of Jove,
Deem'd falsely, for from Folly's idiot form
He sprung, what time Madness, with furious hand,
Seized on the laughing female. At one birtli
She brought the brethren, menial here below,
Though sovereigns upon earth, where oft they hold
High revels. 'Mid the monastery's gloom.
Thy palace. Gluttony, and oft to thee
The sacrifice is spread, when the grave voice
Episcopal proclaims approaching day
Of visitation ; or church- wardens meet
To save the wretched many from the gripe
Of poverty ; or 'mid thy ample halls
Of London, mighty Mayor ! rich Aldermen,
Of coming feast hold converse.

Otherwhere,

For though allied in nature as in blood,

They hold divided sway, his brother lifts

His spongy sceptre. In the noble domes

Of princes, and state-wearied ministers, [mind

Maddening he reigns; and when the affrighted

Casts o'er a long career of guilt and blood

Its eye reluctant, then his aid is sought

To lull the worm of conscience to repose.

He too the halls of country squires frequents ;

But chiefly loves the learned gloom that shades

Thy offspring Rhedycina, and thy walls,

Granta ! nightly libations there to him

Profuse are pour'd, till from the dizzy brain

Triangles, circles, parallelograms.

Moods, tenses, dialects, and demigods.

And logic and theology, are swept

By the red deluge.

Unmolested there
He revels ; till the general feast comes round,
The sacrifice septennial, when the sons
Of England meet, with watchful care, to choose
Their delegates, wise, independent men,
Unbribing and unbribed, and chosen to guard
Their rights and charters from the encroaching

grasp
Of greedy power ; then all the joyful land
Join in his sacrifices, so inspired
To make the important choice.

The observing Maid
Address'd her guide : "These,Theodore,thousay'st
Arc men, who, pampering their foul appetites,
Injured themselves alone. But where are they,
The worst of villains, viper-like, who coil
Around deluded woman, so to sting
The heart that loves them ? "

" Them," the spirit replied,
"A long and dreadful punishment awaits.
For when the prey of want and infamy.
Lower and lower still the victim sinks,
Even to the depth of shame, not one lewd word,
One impious imprecation from her lips
Escapes, nay, not a thought of evil lurks
In the polluted mind, that does not plead
Before the throne of Justice, thunder-tongued.
Against the foul seducer."

Now they reach'd
The house of Penitence. Credulity
Stood at the gate, stretching her eager head
As though to listen ; on her vacant face,
A look that promised premature assent ;
Tho.ugh her Regret behind, a meagre fiend,
Disciplined sorely.

Here they enter'd in,
And now arrived where, as in study tranced.
They saw the mistress of the dome. Her face
Spake that composed severity, that knows
No angry impulse, no weak tenderness,
Resolved and calm. Before her lay the Book,
Which hath the words of life ; and as she read,
Sometimes a tear would trickle down her cheek.
Though heavenly joy beam'd in her eye the while.

Leaving her undisturb'd, to the first ward
Of this great lazar-house the Angel led
The favor'd Maid of Orleans. Kneeling down

(

BOOK II.

THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS.

91

On tlie hard stone which their bare knees liad worn,

In sackcloth robed, a imaierous train appear'd :

Hard-featured sonic, and some demurely grave;

Yet such expression stealing from the eye,

As tliougli, tliat only naked, all tiie rest

Were one close-fitting mask. A scoffing fiend —

For fiend he was, though wisely serving here —

Mock'd at his patients, and did often strow

Ashes upon them, and then bid tliem say

Their prayers aloud, and then he louder laugh'd :

For these were hypocrites, on eartli revered

As holy ones, who did in public tell

Their beads, and make long prayers, and cross

themselves,
And call themselves most miserable sinners,
That so they might be deem'd most pious saints;
And (JO all filtli, and never let a smile
Bend tlieir stern muscles ; gloomy, sullen men,
IJarren of all affection, and all this
To please their God, forsooth ! And therefore Scorn
Grinn'd at his patients, making them repeat
Their solemn farce, witii keenest raillery
Tormenting ; but if earnest in their pra}-cr.
They pour'd the silent sorrows of the soul
To lieaven, then did they not regard his mocks
Which then came painless, and Humility
Then rescued them, and led to Penitence,
That she might lead to Heaven.

From thence they came.
Where, in the next ward, a most wretched band
Groan'd underneath the bitter tyranny
Of a fierce demon. His coarse hair was red.
Pale-gray his eyes, and bloodsliot ; and his face
Wrinkled by such a smile as Malice wears
In ecstasy. Well-pleased he went around.
Plunging his dagger in the hearts of some,
Or probing with a poison'd lance their breasts.
Or placing coals of fire within their wounds ;
Or seizing some within his mighty grasp,
He fix'd them on a stake, and tlien drew back
And laugh'd to see them writhe.

" These," said the spirit,
" Are taught by Cruelty, to loathe the lives
They led themselves. Here are those wicked men
Who loved to exercise their tyrant power
On speechless brutes ; bad husbands undergo
A long purgation here ; the traffickers
In human flesh here, too, are disciplined.
Till by their suffering they have equall'd all
The miseries they inflicted, all the mass
Of wretchedness caused by tiie wars they waged,
The villages they burnt, the widows left
In want, tlie slave or led to suicide.
Or murder'd by the foul, infected air
Of his close dungeon, or, more sad than all,
His virtue lost, his very soul enslaved,
And driven by woe to wickedness.

" These next,
Whom thou beholdest in this dreary room.
With sullen eyes of hatred and of fear
Each on the other scowling, these have been
False friends. Tormented by their own dark

thoughts.
Here they dwell : in the hollow of their hearts
There is a worm that feeds, and though thou scest

That skilful leech who willingly would heal
The ill they sulier, judging of all else
By their own evil conscience, they suspect
The aid he vainly proffers, lengthening thus
By vice its punishment."

" But who are these,"
The Maid exclaim'd, " that robed in flowing lawn,
And mitred, or in scarlet, and in caps
Like cardinals, I see in every ward,
Performing menial service at the beck
Of all who bid them?"

Theodore replied,
" These men are they who in the name of Christ
Have hcap'd up wealth, and arrogating power.
Have made kings kiss their feet, yet call'd them-
selves
The servants of the servants of the Lord.
They dwelt in palaces, in purple clothed.
And in fine linen; therefore are they here;
And thougii they would not minister on earth,
Here penanced tiiey perforce must minister :
Did not the Holy One of Nazareth
Tell them, his kingdom is not of the world.' "

So saying, on they past, and now arrived
Where such a hideous gliastly group abode,
That the Maid gazed with half-averting eye,
And shudder'd : each one was a loiithl}- corpse;
The worm was feeding on his putrid prey;
Yet had they life and feeling exquisite,
Though motionless and mute.

" Most wretched men
Are these," the angel cried. " Poets thou seest
Whose loose, lascivious lays perpetuated
Their own corruption. Soul-polluted slaves,
Who sate them down, deliberately l(!wd,
So to awake and pamper lust in minds
Unborn ; and therefore foul of body now
As then they were of soul, they here abide
Long as the evil works the}' left on earth
Shall live to taint mankind. A dreadful doom!
Yet amply merited by all who thus
Have to the Devil's service dedicated
The gift of song, the gift divine of heaven ! "

And now they reach'd a huge and massy pile,
Massy it scein'd, and j-ct with every blast
As to its ruin shook. There, porter fit.
Remorse forever his sad vigils kept.
Pale, hollow-eyed, emaciate, sleepless wretch.
Inly he groan'd, or, starting, wildly shriek'd.
Aye as the fabric tottering from its base,
Threaten'd its fall, and so expectant still
Lived in tlie dread of danger still delay 'd.
They enter'd there a large and lofty dome,
O'er whose black marble sides a dim, drear light
Struggled with darkness from the unfrcquent lamp.
Fiiithroned around, the murderers of mankind,
Monarchs, the great, the glorious, the august,
Each bearing on his brow a crown of fire,
Sat stern and silent. Niinrod, he was tliere,
First king, the mighty hunter ; and that chief
Who did belie his mother's fame, that so
He might be called young Ammon. In tliis court
Ctcsar was crown'd, the great liberticide ;

92

THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS.

BOOK III.

And he who to the death of Cicero
Consented, thoiioh the courtly minion's lyre
Ilath liy nin'd liis praise, thougli Maro sung to him,
And when death levell'd to original clay
The royal body, impious Flattery
Fell at his feet, and worshipp'd the new god.
Titus was here," the coniiueror of the Jews,
He the delight of human-kind misnamed ;
Cajsars and Soldans, Emperors and Kings,
All who for glory fought, here they were all,
Here in the Hall of Glory, reaping now
The meed they merited.

As gazing round
The Virgin mark'd the miserable train,
A deep and hollow voice from one went forth ;
" Thou who art come to view our punishment,
Maiden of Orleans! hither turn thine eye,
For I am he whose bloody victories
Thy power hath rendcr'd vain. Lo ! I am here,
The hero conqueror of Agincourt,
Henry of England 1 — Wretched that 1 am !
I might have reign'd in happiness and peace.
My coffers full, my subjects undisturb'd,
And Plenty and Prosperity had loved
To dwell amongst them ; but in evil hour
Seeing the realm of France, by faction torn,
I thought in pride of heart that it would fall
An easy prey. I persecuted those
Who taught new doctrines, though they taught the

truth ;
And when 1 heard of thousands by the sword
Cut off, or blasted by the pestilence,
I calmly counted up my proper gains.
And sent new herds to slaughter. Temperate
Myseif, no blood that mutinied, no vice
Tainting my private life, I sent abroad
Muruer and Rape ; and therefore am I doom'd,
Like these imperial sufferers, crown'd with fire,
Here to remain, till man's awaken'd eye
Shall see the genuine blackness of our deeds;
And warn'd by them, till the whole human race,
Equalling in bliss the aggregate we caused
Of wretchedness, shall form one brotherhood,
One universal family of love."

THE THIRD BOOK.

The Maiden, musing on the warrior's words,
Turn d from the Hall of Glory. Now they reach'd
A cavern, at whose mouth a Genius stood,
In front a beardless youth, whose smiling eye
Bcam'd promise, but behind, wither'd and old,
And all unlovely. Underneath his feet
Records obliterate lay, and laurels sear.
He held an hour-glass, and as the sands fall,
So pass the lives of men. By him they past
Along the darksome cave, and reach'd a stream,
Still rolling onward its perpetual course
Noiseless and undisturb'd. Here they ascend
A bark unpiloted, that down the stream,
Borne by the current, rush'd, which circling still.
Returning to itself, an island form'd ;

Nor had the Maiden's footsteps ever reach'd
The insulated coast, eternally
Rapt round in endless whirl : but Theodore
Drove with a spirit's will the obedient bark.

They land ; a mighty fabric meets their eyes,
Seen by its gem-born light. Of adamant
The pile was framed, forever to abide
Firm in eternal strength. Before the gate
Stood eager Expectation, as to catch
The half-heard murnmrs issuing from within.
Her mouth half-open'd, and her head stretch'd forth.
On the other side there stood an aged crone.
Listening to every breath of air; she knew
Vague suppositions and uncertain dreams
Of what was soon to come, for she would mark
The little glow-worm's self-emitted light.
And argue thence of kingdoms overthrown.
And desolated nations; ever fill'd
With undetermined terror, as she heard
Or distant screech-owl, or the regular beat
Of evening death-watch.

"Maid," the spirit cried,
" Here, robed in shadows, dwells Futurity.
There is no eye hath seen her secret form.
For round the Mother of Time eternal mists
Hover. If thou would'st read the book of fate,
Go in ! "

The damsel for a moment paused,
Then to the angel spake : " All-gracious Heaven,
Benignant in withholding, hath denied
To man that knowledge. 1, in faith assured,
Knowing my heavenly Father for the best
Ordaineth all things, in that faith remain
Contented."

" Well and wisely hast thou said,"
So Theodore replied ; " and now, O Maid I
Is there amid this boundless universe
One whom thy soul would visit? Is there place
To memory dear, or vision'd out by hope.
Where thou would'st now be present? Form the

wish.
And I am with thee, there."

His closing speech
Yet sounded on her ear, and lo ! they stood
Swift as the sudden thought that guided them.
Within the little cottage that she loved.
"He sleeps! the good man sleeps ! "enrapt she cried,
As bending o'er her uncle's lowly bed
Her eye retraced his features. " See the beads
Which never morn nor night he fails to tell,
Remembering me, his child, in every prayer.
Oh ! peaceful be thy sleep, thou dear old man !
Good Angels guard thy rest ! and when thine hour
Is come, as gently mayst thou wake to life.
As when through yonder lattice the next sun
Shall bid thee to thy morning orisons ! "

"Thy voice is heard," the angel guide rejoin d,
" He sees thee in his dreams, he hears thee breathe
Blessings, and happy is the good man's rest.
Thy fame has reach'd him, for who hath not heard
Thy wondrous exploits ? and his aged heart
Hath felt the deepest joy that ever yet
Made his glad blood flow fast. Sleep on, old Claude !

fiooK rii.

THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS,

93

Peaceful, pure spirit, be thy sojourn here.
And sliorl ami soon tiiy passajro to that world
W'here friends shall part no more !

Does thy soul own
No other wish ? or sleeps poor Madclon
Forgotten in her grave? — Seest tliou yon star,"
Tlie spirit pursued, regardless that her eye
Reproach'd him ; "seest thou that evening star
W'liose lovely light so often we beheld
From yonder woodbine porch? How have we

gazed
Into the dark, deep sky, till the baffled soul.
Lost in the infinite, return'd, and felt
The burden of her bodily load, and yearn'd
For freedom ! Maid, in yonder evening star
Lives thy departed friend. I read that glance,
And we are there ! "

He said, and they had past
The immeasurable space.

Then on her ear
The lonely song of adoration rose.
Sweet as the cloister'd virgin's vesper hymn,
Whose spirit, happily dead to earthly hopes,
Already lives in heaven. Abrupt the song
Ceased, tremulous and quick a cry
Of joyful wonder roused the astonish'd Maid,
And instant Madelon was in her arms ;
No airy form, no unsubstantial shape,
She felt her friend ; she prest her to her heart ;
Their tears of rapture mingled.

She drew back,
And eagerly she gazed on Madelon,
Then fell upon her neck and wept again.
No more she saw the long-drawn lines of grief,
The emaciate form, the hue of sickliness.
The languid eye : youth's loveliest freshness now
Mantled her cheek, whose every lineament
Bespake the soul at rest, a holy calm,
A deep and full tranquillity of bliss.

" Thou then art come, my first and dearest
friend!"
The well-known voice of Madelon began,
" Thou then art come ! And was thy pilgrimage
So short on earth ? and was it painful too.
Painful and short as mine ? but blessed they
Who from the crimes and miseries of the world
Early escape ! "

"Nay," Theodore replied,
" She hath not yet fulfill'd her mortal work.
Permitted visitant from earth she comes
To see the seat of rest ; and oftentimes
In sorrow shall her soul remember this.
And patient of its transitory woe.
Partake again the anticipated joy."

" Soon be that work perform'd ! " the Maid ex-
claim'd,
" O Madelon ! O Theodore ! My soul.
Spurning the cold communion of the world.
Will dwell with you. But I shall patiently.
Yea, even with joy, endure the allotted ills
Of which the memory in this better state
Shall heighten bliss. That hour of agony.
When, Madelon, 1 felt thy dying grasp.

And from thy forehead wiped the dews of death,
The very anguish of tliat hour becomes
A joy for memory now."

" O earliest friend !
I too remember," Madelon replied,
" That hour, thy looks of watchful agony,
The supprest grief that struggled in thine eye
Endearing love's last kindness. Thou didst know
With what ii deep and earnest hope intense
I felt the hour draw on : but who can speak
The unutterable transport, when mine eyes,
As from a long and dreary dream, unclosed
Amid this peaceful vale, — unclosed upon
My Arnaud ! He had built me up a bower,
A bower of rest. — See, Maiden, where he comes,
His manly lineaments, his beaming eye.
The same, but now a holler innocence
Sits on his cheek, and loftier thoughts illume
The enlighten'd glance."

They met ; what jo}' was theirs
He best can feel, who for a dear friend dead
Hath wet the midnight pillow with his tears.

Fair was the scene around ; an ample vale
Whose mountain circle at the distant verge
Lay soften'd on the sight; the near ascent
Rose bolder up, in part abrupt and bare,
Part with the ancient majesty of woods
Adorn'd, or lifting high its rocks sublime.
A river's liquid radiance roll'd beneath :
Beside the bower of Madelon it wound
A broken stream, whose shallows, though the waves
Roll'd on their way with rapid melody,
A child might tread. Behind, an orange grove
Its gay, green foliage starr'd with golden fruit.
But with what odors did their blossoms load
The passing gale of eve ! Less thrilling sweets
Rose from the marble's perforated floor,
Where kneeling at her prayers, the Moorish queen
Inhaled the cool delight," and whilst she ask'd
The prophet for his promised paradise,
Shaped from the present bliss its utmost joys.
A goodly scene I fair as that fairy land
Where Arthur lives, by ministering spirits borne
From Camelot's bloody banks ; or as the groves
Of earliest Eden, where, so legends say,
Enoch abides ; and he who, rapt away
By fiery steeds and charioted in fire,
Past in his mortal form the eternal ways ;
And John, beloved of Christ, enjoying there
The beatific vision, sometimes seen.
The distant dawning of eternal day,
Till all things be fulfilled.

" Survey this scene ;
So Theodore address'd the Maid of Arc ;
"There is no evil here, no wretchedness;
It is the heaven of those who nurst on earth
Their nature's gentlest feelings. Yet not here
Centring their joys, but with a patient hope.
Waiting the allotted hour when capable
Of loftier callings, to a better state
They pass ; and hither from that better state
Frequent they come, preserving so those ties
Which through the infinite progressiveness
Complete our perfi'ct bliss.

94

THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS.

BOOK III.

Even such, so blest,
Save that the memory of no sorrows past
Heighten'd tlie present joy, our world was once,
In the first era of its innocence,
Ere man had learnt to bow the knee to man.
Was there a youth whom warm affection fill'd,
He spake his honest heart ; the earliest fruits
His toil produced, the sweetest flowers that deck'd
The sunny bank, he gather'd for the maid,
Nor she disdain'd the gift; for Vice not yet
Had burst the dungeons of her Hell, and rear'd
Those artificial boundaries that divide
Man from his species. State of blessedness !
Till tiiat ill-omen'd hour when Cain's true son
Delved in the bowels of the earth for gold,
Accursed bane of virtue, — of such force
As poets feign dwelt in the Gorgon's locks,
Which whoso saw, felt instant the life-blood
Cold curdle in his veins, the creeping flesh
Grew stiff" with horror, and the heart forgot
To beat. Accursed hour ! for man no more
To Justice paid his homage, but forsook
Her altars, and bow'd down before the shrine
Of Wealth and Power, the idols he had made.
Then Hell enlarged herself, her gates flew wide.
Her legion fiends rush'd forth. Oppression came.
Whose frown is desolation, and whose breath
Blasts like tlie pestilence ; and Poverty,
A meagre monster, who with withering touch
Makes barren all the better part of man.
Mother of Miseries. Then the goodly earth
Which God had framed for happiness, became
One theatre of woe, and all that God
Had given to bless free men, these tyrant fiends
His bitterest curses made. Yet for the best
Have all things been appointed by the All-wise I
For by experience taught shall man at length
Dash down his Moloch-idols, Samson-like,
And burst his fetters. Then in the ab3rss
Oppression shall be chain'd, and Poverty
Die, and with her, her brood of miseries ;
And 'Virtue and Equality preserve
The reign of Love, and earth shall once again
Be Paradise, where Wisdom shall secure
The state of bliss which Ignorance betray 'd."

" Oh age of happiness ! " the Maid exclaim'd,
" Roll fast thy current. Time, till that blest age
Arrive ! and happy thou, my Theodore,
Permitted thus to see the sacred depths
Of wisdom ! "

" Such," the blessed spirit replied,
"Beloved! such our lot; allowed to range
The vast infinity, progressive still
In knowledge and increasing blessedness,
This our united portion. Thou hast yet
A little while to sojourn amongst men :
I will be with thee ; there shall not a breeze
Wanton around thy temples, on whose wing
I will not hover near ; and at that hour
When from its fleshly sepulchre let loose.
Thy phojni.x soul shall soar, O best-beloved I
I will be with thee in thine agonies,
And welcome thee to life and happiness.
Eternal, infinite beatitude ! "

He spake, and led her near a straw-roofd cot,
Love's palace. By the Virtues circled there
The Immortal listen'd to such melodies.
As aye, wlien one good deed is register'd
Above, reecho in the halls of heaven.
Labor was there, his crisp locks floating loose;
Clear was his cheek, and beaming his full eye.
And strong his arm robust; ilie wood-nymph

Health
Still follow'd on his path, and where he trod
Fresh flowers and fruits arose. And there was

Hope,
The general friend; and Pity, whose mild eye
Wept o'er the Vv'idow'd dove; and, loveliest form.
Majestic Chastity, whose sober smile
Delights and awes the soul ; a laurel wreath
llestrain'd her tresses, and upon her breast
The snow-drop hung its head,* that seem'd to grow
Spontaneous, cold and fair. Beside the maid
Love went submiss, with eye more dangerous
Then fancied basilisk to wound whoe'er
Too bold approach'd ; yet anxious would he read
Her every rising wish, then only pleased
When pleasing. Hymning him, the song was

raised.

" Glory to thee whose vivifying power
Pervades all Nature's universal frame !
Glory to thee, Creator Love ! to thee.
Parent of all the smiling Charities,
That strow the thorny path of life with flowers '
Glory to thee, Preserver ! To thy praise
The awakened woodlands echo all the day
Their living melody ; and warbling forth
To thee her twilight song, the nightingale
Holds the lone traveller from his way, or charms
The listening poet's ear. Where Love shall deign
To fix his seat, there blameless Pleasure sheds
Her roseate dews ; Content will sojourn there.
And Happiness behold Aff'ection's eye
Gleam with the mother's smile. Thrice happy he
Who feels thy holy power ! he shall not drag,
Forlorn and friendless, along life's long path
To age's drear abode ; he shall not waste
The bitter evening of his days unsooth'd;
But Hope shall cheer his hours of solitude.
And Vice shall vainly strive to wound his breast,
That bears that talisman ; and when he meets
The eloquent eye of Tenderness, and hears
The bosom-thrilling music of her voice,
The joy he feels shall purify his soul,
And imp it for anticipated heaven."

NOTES

Note 1, p. Sfi, col.]. — Instructing best the passive faculty.

May says of Serapis,

F.rudit at placide humanam per somnia mcntem,

J\'octurnaquc (/itictc docct ; nulloqui; labore

Hie tavtum porta rst prctiosa scicntia, nulla

Ezcutitur studio vcruin, Mortalia corda

Tunc Dcus iste docct, cum sunt minus apta doceri,

Cum nullum obsequium pr<j:stant, meritisque fatcntur

NOTES TO THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS,

95

^i7 sese ttcbert suis ; tunc recte scientcs

Cum nil scire valent. .Vun illo tempvre sensus

Ilamanos fursan dignalur namen inire,

Cam propriis possmit per sc dUcursibiis uti

JVi'/urtc humanU ratio dicina coircL — Sup. Lucani.

Note 2, p. 86, col. 1. ind all things are Vial seem.

I have mot with a singular talo to ilhistrate tliis siiiritual
theory of dreams.

Guntrum, king of the Franks, was lihcral to tlie poor, and
he himSL-lf experienced the wonderful effects of divine liber-
a^^ty For one day, as lie was hunting in a forest, he was
separated from his companions, and arrived at a little stream
of water with only one comrade of tried and approval fidelity.
Hero he found himself opprest hy drowsiness, and, reclining
his head upon the servant's liqi, went to sleep. The servant
witnessed a wonderful thing, for he saw a little beast creep
out of the mouth of his sleeping m istcr, and go immediately
lo the streamlet, which it vuinly attempted to cross. The
servant drew his sword, and laid it across tlie water, over
which the little beast eiisily past, and crept into a hole of a
mountain on the opposite side ; from whence it made its ap-
pearance again in an hour, and returned by the same means
into the king's mouth. The king then awakened, and told
his companion that he had dreamt that he was arrived upon
the bank of an immense river, which he had crossed by a
bridge of iron, and from thence came tc a mountain in which
a great quantity of gold was concealed. When the king had
concluded, the servant related what he had behold, and they
both went to examine the mountain, where, upon digging, they
discovered an immense weight of gold.

1 stumbled upon this tale in a book entitled Sphinx, TTieo-
lo^rico-Philosophica. Authore Juhanne Ilddfddio, Ecdcsiastc
Ebersbachiano. 1621.

Tlie fame story is in Matthew of Westminster ; it is added
that Guntrum applied tlie treasures tlius found to pious uses.

For the truth of the theory there is the evidence of a monk-
ish miracle. When Thurcillus was about to follow St. Julian
and visit the world of souls, his guide said lo him, " Let thy
body rest in the bed, for thy spirit only is about to depart with
me ; and lost the body should appear dead, I will send into it
a vital breath."

The body, however, by a strange sympathy, was affected like
the spirit ; for when the foul and fetid smoke which arose
from the tithes withheld on earth had nearly suffocated Thur-
cillus, and made him cough twice, those who were near his
body said that it coughed twice about the same time.

MatUtew Paris.

Note 3, p. 88, col. 2. — Ur deeper gable dyed.

These lines strongly resemble a passage in the Pharonnida
of William Chamberlayne, apoet who his told an interesting
story in uncouth rhymes, and mingled sublimity of thought and
beauty of expression, with the quaintest conceits and most
awkward inversions.

On a rock more high
Than Nature's common surface, she beholds
The mansion house of Fate, which tlius unfolds
Its sacred mysteries. A trine within
A quadrate placed, both these encompast in
A perfect circle was its form ; but what
Its matter was, for us to wonder at,
Is undiscovered left. A tower there stands
At every angle, where Time's fatal hands
The impartial I'arca; dwell ; i' the first she sees
Clotho the kindest of the Destinies,
From immaterial essences to cull
The seeds of life, and of them frame the wool
For Lachesis to spin ; about her flie
Myriads of souls, that yet want flesh to lie
Warmed with their funrlions in, whoso strength bestows
That power by whirh man ripe for misery grows.

Her ne\t of objects was thnt glorious tower
Where that swift-fingered nymph that spares no hour
From mortals' service draws the various threads
Of life in several lengths ; to weary beds

Of age extending some, whilst others in

Their infancy are broke : some blackt in sin.

Others, titc fanorilcs of Heaven., from whence

Their origin, candid with mnocenec ;

Some purpled in afflictions, others dyed

In sanguine pleasures : some in glittering jiride

Spun to adorn the earth, whilst others wear

Rugs of deformity, but knots of care

No thread was wholly free from. Next to this

Fair glorious tower, was placed that black abyss

Of dreadful Atropos, the baleful seat

Of death and horrour, in each room repleat

With lazy damps, loud groans, and the sad sight

Of pale grim ghosts, those terrours of the night.

To this, the last stage that the winding clew

Of life can lead mortality unto,

Fear was the dreadful porter, which let in

All guests sent thither by destructive sin.

It is possible that I may have written from the recollection
of this passage. The conceit is the same, and I willingly at-
tribute it to Chamberlayne, a poet to whom I am indebted for
many hours of delight.

Note 4, p. 89, col. 2. — Shall Uie huge camel pass.

I had originally written cable instead of camel. The alter-
ation would not be worth noticing were it not for the reason
which occasioned it. Facilius elephas per foramen acus, is
among the Hebrew adages collected by Drusius ; the same
metaphor is found in two other Jewish proverbs, and this
confirms beyond all doubt the common reading of Matt. xix. 24

Note 5, p. 89, col. 2. — Large draughts of molten gold.

The same idea, and almost the same words, are in one of
Ford's plays. The passage is a very fine one :

Ay, you are wretched, miserably wretched,
Almost condemn'd alive ! There is a place,
(List, daughter !) in a black and hollow vault.
Where day is never seen ; there shines no sun.
But flaming horror of consuming fires ;
A lightless sulphur, choaked with smoaky foggs
Of an infected darkness. In this place
Dwell many thousand thousands sundry sorts
Of never-dying deaths ; there damned souls
Roar without pity, there are gluttons fed
With toads and adders : there is burning oil
Pour'd down the drunkard's throat, the usurer
Is forced to sup whole draughts of molten gold :
There is the murderer for ever stabb'd.
Yet he can never die ; there lies the wanton
On racks of burning steel, whilst in his soul
He feels the torment of his raging lust.

'7fa Pity shr^s a Whore.

I wrote this passage when very young, and the idea, trite as
it is, was new to me. It occurs I believe in most description!
of hell, and perhaps owes its origin to the fate of Crassus.

Note 0, p. 92, col. 1. — Titus was here.

During the siege of Jerusalem, " the Roman commander,
with a generous elcmeucy, that inseparable attendant on true
heroism, labored incessantly, and to the very last moment, tc
preserve the place. With this view, he again and again en-
treated the tyrants to surrender and save their lives. \Vith
the same view also, after carrying the second wall, the siega
was intermitted four days : to rouse their fears, prisoners, to
the number office hundred or more, were crucified daily before
the walls ; till space, Josephus says, was wanlinsfcr the crosses,
and crosses for the c(7;)fi>&s." — Churton's Bnmpton Lectures

If any of my readers should inquire why Titus Ves|)asian,
the delight of mankind, is placed in such a situation,— I
answer, for this instance of " his generous clemency, that in-
separable attendant on true heroism '. "

96

PREFACE TO JUVENILE AND MINOR POEMS.

Note 7, p. 93, col. 2. — Inlmled the coul delight.

In the cabinet of the Alhambra, where the queen used to
dress and say her prayers, and which is still an enchanting sight,
there is a slab of marble full of small holes, through which
perfumes exhaled that were kept constantly burning beneath.
The doors and windows are disposed so as to afford the most
agreeable prospects, and to throw a soft yet lively light upon
the eyes. Fresh currents of air, too, are admitted, so as to

renew every instant the delicious coolness of this apartment
Sketch of the irustorij nf the Spanish Muors,prrJUed
to Florian's Oonsalvo of Cordova.

Note 8, p. 94, col. 2. — The snow-drop hung its head.

" The grave matron does not perceive How time has im-
paired her charms, but decks her faded bosom with the same
snow-drop that seems to grow on the breast of the virgin."

P. H.

3Jtttitnilr an?r jUtnor l^t^tmn

VOL. I.

What r WAS, is passed by Wither.

PREFACE.

The earliest pieces in these Juvenile and Minor
Poems were written before the writer had left
school ; between the date of these and of the latest
there is an interval of six and forty years: as much
diiFerence, therefore, may be perceived in them, as
in the different stages of life from boyhood to old
age.

Some of the earliest appeared in a little volume
published at Batji in the autumn of 1794, with this
title : — " Poems containing the Retrospect, &c.
by Robert Lovelland Robert Southey, 1795; " and
with this motto : —

Miauentar alroe
Carmine cam. — Hokace.

At the end of that volume, Joan of Arc was an-
nounced as to be published by subscription.

Others were published at Bristol, 1797, in a sin-
gle volume, with this motto from Akenside : —

Goddess of the Lyre, —

with thee comes
Majestic Truth ; and where Truth deigns to come.
His sister Liberty will not be far.

A second volume followed at Bristol in 1799,
after the second edition of Joan of Arc, and com-
mencing with the Vision of the Maid of Orleans.
The motto to this was from the Epilogue to Spen-
ser's Shepherds' Calendar : —

The better, please ; the worse, displease : I ask no more.

In the third edition of Joan of Arc, the Vision
was printed separately, at tlie end ; and its place
was supplied in the second edition of the Poems by
miscellaneous pieces.

A separate volume, entitled " Metrical Tales and
other Poems," was published in 1805, with this
advertisement : — '■ These Poems were published
some years ago in the Annual Anthology. (Bris-
tol, 1799, 1800.) They have now been revised and

printed in this collected form, because they have
pleased those readers whom the author was most
desirous of pleasing. Let them be considered as
the desultory productions of a man sedulously em-
ployed upon better things."

These various pieces were re-arranged in three
volumes, under the title of Minor Poems, in 1815,
with this motto,

JSTos hcec novimus esse nihil ;

and they were published a second time in the same
form, 1823.

The Ballads and Metrical Tales contained in
those volumes belong to a different part of this
collection ; their other contents are comprised here ;
and the present volume consists, witJi very few
exceptions, of pieces written in youth or early
manhood. One of these, written in my twentieth
year, not having been published at the time, would
never have been made public by my own act
and deed ; but as Wat Tyler obtained considerable
notoriety upon its surreptitious publication, it
seemed proper that a production which will be
specially noticed whenever the author shall be
delivered over to the biographers, should be inclu-
ded here. They who may desire to know more
than is stated in the advertisement now prefixed
to it, are referred to a Letter addressed to William
Smith, Esq. M. P., 1817, reprinted in the second
volume of my Essays Moral and Political, 1832.

The second volume of this part of the Collection
contains one juvenile piece, and many which were
written in early manhood. The remainder were
composed in middle or later life, and comprise
(witli one exception that will more conveniently
be arranged elsewliere) all the odes which as Poet
Laureate I have written upon national occasions.
Of these the Carmen Triumphale, a.nd the Carmina
Aulica, were separately published in quarto in 1814,
and reprinted together in a little volume in 1821.

The Juvenile and Minor Poems in this Col-
lection bear an inconsiderable proportion to those

PREFACE TO JUVENILE AND MINOR POEMS.

97

of substantive length : for a small part only of my
vouthful effusions were spared from those autos-
da-fe in which from time to time piles upon piles
have been consumed. In middle life works of
greater extent, or of a different kind, left me little
leisure for occasional poetry ; tiie impulse ceased,
and latterly the inclination was so seldom felt, that
it required an effort to call it forth.

Sir William Davenant, in the Preface to Gon-
dibert, '• took occasion to accuse and condemn all
those hasty digestions of thought whicli were pub-
lished in his youth ; a sentence, said he, not pro-
nounced out of melancholy rigour, but from a
cheerful obedience to tlie just authority of expe-
rience. For that grave mistress of the world, ex-
perience (in whose profitable school those before
the Flood stayed long, but we, like wanton chil-
dren, come thither late, yet too soon are called out
of it, and fetched home by death) hath taught me
that the cnirendcrings of unripe age become abor-
tive and deformed ; and that 't is a high presump-
tion to entertain a nation (who are a poet's stand-
ing guest, and require monarchical respect) with
liasty provisions ; as if a poet might imitate the
familiar despatch of faulconers. mount his Pegasus,
unhood his Muse, and, with a few flights, boast he
hath provided a feast for a prince. Such posting
upon Pegasus I have long since foreborne." Yet
this eminently thoughtful poet was so far from
seeking to suppress the crude compositions which
he thus condemned, that he often expressed a great
desire to see all his pieces collected in one volume;
and, conformably to his wish, they were so collect-
ed, after his decease, by his widow and his friend
Herringman the bookseller.

Agreeing with Davenant in condemning the
greater part of my juvenile pieces, it is only as cru-
dities that 1 condemn them ; for in all that I have
written, whether in prose or verse, there has
never been a line which, for any compunctious
reason, living or dying, I could wish to blot.

Davenant had not changed liis opinion of his
own youtliful productions so as to overlook in his
age the defects which he had once clearly per-
ceived ; but he knew that pieces which it would
indeed have been presumptuous to re-produce on
the score of their merit, miffht yet be deemed
worthy of preservation on other grounds ; that to
his family and friends, and to those who might
take any interest in English poetry hereafter, they
would possess peculiar value, as characteristic
memorials of one who had held no inconsiderable
place in the literature of his own times ; feeling,
too. that he was not likely to be forgotten by poster-
ity, he thouffhtthat after the specimen which he had
prod\iced in his Gondibertof a great and elaborate
poem, his early attempts would be regarded with
curiosity by such of his successors as should, like
him, study poetry as an art, — for as an art it must
be studied by those who would excel in it, though
excellence in it is not attainable by art alone.

The cases are very few in which any thing more

can be inferred from juvenile poetry, than that the

aspirant possesses imitative talent, and the power

of versifying, for which, as for music, there must

13

be a certain natural aptitude. It is not merely
because " they have lacked culture and the inspi-
ring aid of books," * that so many poets who have
been "sown by Nature," have "wanted the ac-
complishment of verse," and brought forth no fruit
after their kind. Men of the highest culture, of
whose poetical temperament no doubt can be en-
tertained, and who had "taken to the height the
measure of themselves," have yet failed in tlieir
endeavor to become poets, for want of that accom-
plishment. It is frequently possessed without any
other qualification, or any capacity for imj)rove-
mcnt; but then the innate and incurable defect
that renders it abortive, is at once apparent.

The state of literature in this kingdom during
the last fifty years has produced the same effect
upon poetry that academies produce upon paint-
ing ; in both arts every possible assistance is
atlbrded to imitative talents, and in both they are
carried as far as the talent of imitation can reach.
But there is one respect in which poetry differs
widely from the sister arts. Its fairest promise
frequently proves deceitful, whereas both in paint-
ing and music the early indications of genius are
unequivocal. The children who were called musi-
cal prodigies, have become great musicians ; and
great painters, as far as their history is known,
have displayed in childhood that accuracy of eye,
and dexterity of hand, and shaping faculty, which
are the prime requisites for their calling. But it
is often found that young poets, of whom great
expectations were formed, have made no progress,
and have even fallen short of their first perform-
ances. It may be said that this is because men
apply themselves to music and to painting as theii
professions, but that no one makes poetry the
business of his life. This, however, is not the
only reason : the indications, as has already been
observed, are far less certain ; and the circum-
stances of society are far less favorable for the moral
and intellectual culture which is required for all
the higher branches of poetry, — all, indeed, that
deserves the name.

My advice, as to publishing, has often been asked
by young poets, who suppose that experience has
qualified me to give it, and who have notyetlearnt
how seldom advice is taken, and how little there-
fore it is worth. As a general rule, it may be said
that one who is not deceived in the estimate which
he has formed of his own powers, can neither
write too much in his youth, nor publish too little.
It cannot, however, be needful to caution tlie
present race of poetical adventurers against hurry-
ing with their productions to the press, for there
are obstacles enough in the way of publication.
Looking back upon my own career, and acknowl-
edging my imprudence in this respect, I have, nev-
ertheless, no cause to wish that I had pursued a
different course. In this, as in other circum-
stances of my life, I have reason to be thankful to
that merciful Providence which shaped the ends
that I had roughly hewn for myself

Keswick, Sept. 30, 1837.

* Wordswortli

98

THE TlllUMPII OF WOMAN

TO EDITH SOUTMEY.

With way-worn feet, a traveller woe-begone,
Life's upward road 1 jouniey'd many a day,
And framing many a sad yet soothing lay,

Beguiled the solitary hours with song.
Lonely my heart and rugged was the way,
Yet often pluck'd I, as I past along,

The wild and simple flowers of poesy ;

And sometimes, unreflecting as a child.
Entwined the weeds which pleased a random eye.
Take thou the wreath, Beloved ! it is wild
And rudely garlanded ; yet scorn not thou
The humble offering, where dark rosemary weaves

Amid gay flowers its melancholy leaves,

And myrtle gathered to adorn thy brow.

Jiristol, 1796.

THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAN.

The Subject of this Poem is taken from the third and fourth
Chapters of the First Book of Esdras.

TO MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.

The lily cheek, the " purple light of love,"
The liquid lustre of the melting eye, —
Mary ! of these the Poet sung, for these
Did Woman triumph; — turn not thou away
Contemptuous from the theme. No Maid of Arc
Had, in those ages, for her country's cause
Wielded the sword of freedom; no Roland
Had borne the palm of female fortitude ;
No Corde, with self-sacrificing zeal.
Had glorified again the Avenger's name,
As erst when Cassar perish'd : haply too
Some strains may hence be drawn, befitting me
To offer, nor unworthy thy regard.

Robert Southev.

Bristol. 1793.

THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAN.

Gi-Ai) as the weary traveller tempest tost

To reach ?ccure at length his native coast,

Who wandering long o'er distant lands hath sped,

The night-blast wildly howling round his head.

Known all the woes of want, and felt the storm

Of the bleak winter parch his shivering form;

The journey o'er and every peril past

Beholds his little cottage-home at last,

And as he sees afar the smoke curl slow,

Feels his full eyes with transport overflow ;

So from the scene where Death and Misery reign.

And Vice and Folly drench with blood the plain,

Joyful I turn, to sing how Woman's praise

Avail'd again Jerusalem to raise.

Call'd forth the sanction of the Despot's nod,
And freed the nation best beloved of God.

Darius gives the feast; to Persia's court,
Awed by his will, the obedient throng resort:
Attending Satraps swell their prince's pride.
And vanquish'd Monarchs grace the Conqueror's

side.
No more the warrior wears the garb of war,
Girds on the sword, or mounts the scythed car ;
No more Judma's sons dejected go.
And hang the head, and heave the sigh of woe.
From Persia's rugged hills descend the train,
From where Orontes foams along the plain.
From where Choaspes rolls his royal waves,
And India sends her sons, submissive slaves.
Thy daughters, Babylon, for this high feast
Weave the loose robe, and paint the flowery vest,
With roseate wreaths they braid the glossy hair.
They tinge the cheek which nature form'd so fair,
Learn the soft step, the soul-subduing glance.
Melt in the song, and swim adown the dance.
Exalted on the Monarch's golden throne,
In royal state the fair Apame shone ;
Her form of majesty, her eyes of fire.
Chill with respect, or kindle with desire ;
The admiring multitude her charms adore,
And own her worthy of the rank she bore.

Now on his couch reclined Darius lay.
Tired with the toilsome pleasures of the day;
Without Judaea's watchful sons await.
To guard the sleeping idol of the state.
Three youths were these of Judah's royal race,
Three youths whom Nature dower'd with every

grace.
To each the form of symmetry she gave.
And haughty genius cursed each favorite slave;
These fill'd the cup, around the Monarch kept,
Served when he spake, and guarded while he slept.

Yet oft for Salem's hallow'd towers laid low
The sigh would heave, the unbidden tear would

flow ;
And when the dull and wearying round of power
Allow'd Zorobabel one vacant hour.
He loved on Babylon's high wall to roam.
And lingering gaze toward his distant home ;
Or on Euphrates' willowy banks reclined
Hear the sad harp moan fitful to the wind.

[light,

As now the perfumed lamps stream wide their
And social converse cheers the livelong night.
Thus spake Zorobabel : " Too long in vain
For Zion desolate her sons complain ;
All hopelessly our years of sorrow flow,
And these proud heathen mock their captives' woe.
While Cyrus triumph'd here in victor state
A brighter prospect cheer'd our exiled fate ;
Our sacred walls again he bade us raise,
And to Jehovah rear the pile of praise.
Quickly these fond hopes faded from our eyes,
As the frail sun that gilds the wintry skies.
And spreads a moment's radiance o'er the plain.
Soon hid by clouds which dim the scene again.

THE TRIUMPH OP WOMAN.

99

" Opprest by Artaxerxes' jealous reign,
We vainly pleaded here, and wept in vain.
Now when Darius, chief ot" mild command,
Uids joy and pleasure fill the festive land.
Still shall we droop the head in sullen grief,
And sternly silent shun to seek relief?
What if amid the Monarch's mirthful throng
Our harps should echo to tlie clieerful song ? "

" Fair is the occasion," thus the one replied ;
'• Now then let all our tuneful skill be tried.
And while the courtiers quaff" the smiling bowl,
And wine's strong fumes inspire the gladden'd soul,
Where all around is merriment, be mine
To strike the lute, and praise the power of Wine. "

" And while," his friend rejoin'd, " in state alone,
Lord of the earth, Darius fills the throne.
Be yours the mighty power of Wine to sing.
My lute shall sound the praise of Persia's King."

To them Zorobabel : " On themes like these
Seek ye the Monarch of Mankind to please ;
To Wine superior, or to Power's strong arms.
Be mine to sing resistless Woman's charms.
To him victorious in the rival lays
Shall just Darius give the meed of praise ;
A purple robe his honor'd frame shall fold,
The beverage sparkle in his cup of gold ;
A golden couch support his bed of rest.
The chain of honor grace his favor'd breast;
His the rich turban, his the car's array,
On Babylon's higii wall to wheel its way ;
And for his wisdom seated on the throne.
For the King's Cousin shall the Bard be knov/n."

Intent they meditate the future lay,
And watch impatient for the dawn of day.
The morn rose clear, and slirill were heard the flute.
The cornet, sackbut, dulcimer, and lute ;
To Babylon's gay streets the throng resort.
Swarm through the gates, and fill the festive court.
High on his throne Darius tower'd in pride,
The fair Apame graced her Sovereign's side :
And now she smiled, and now with mimic frown
Placed on her brow the Monarch's sacred crown.
In transport o'er her faultless form he bends.
Loves every look, and every act commends.

And now Darius bids the herald call
Judaea's Bards to grace the thronging hall.
Hush'd are all sounds, the attending crowd arc

mute,
And then the Hebrew gently touch 'd the lute :

When the Traveller on his way,
Who has toil'd the livelong day,
Feels around on every side
The chilly mists of eventide,
Fatigued and faint his weary mind
Recurs to all he leaves behind ;
lie thinks upon the well-trimm'd hearth,
The evening hour of social mirth,
And her who at departing day
Weeps for her husband far away.

Oh give to him the flowing bowl !
Bid it renovate his soul 1
Then shall sorrow sink to sleep,
And he who wept no more shall weep;
For his care-clouded brow shall clear,
And his glad eye will sparkle through the tear.

When tlie poor man heart-opprest
Betakes him to his evening rest,
And worn with labor thinks in sorrow
On the labor of to-morrow ;
Wlien repining at his lot
He hies him to his joyless cot.
And loathes to meet his children there,
The rivals for his scanty fare;
Oh give to him tlie flowing bowl !
Bid it renovate his soul !
The generous juice with magic power
Shall cheat with happiness the hour,
And with each warm affection fill
The heart by want and wretchedness made chill

When, at the dim close of day.
The Captive loves alone to stray
Along the haunts recluse and rude
Of sorrow and of solitude ;
Wlien he sits with mournful eye
To mark the lingering radiance die,
And lets distempered fancy roam
Amid the ruins of his home; —
Oh give to him the flowing bowl !
Bid it renovate his soul I
The bowl shall better thoughts bestow,
And lull to rest his wakeful woe,
And joy shall gild the evening hour,
And make the Captive Fortune's conqueror.

When the wearying cares of state
Oppress the Monarch with their weight,
When from his pomp retired alone
He feels the duties of the throne,
Feels that the multitude below
Dei)end on him for weal or woe ;
When his powerful will may bless
A realm with peace and happiness,
Or with desolating breath
Breathe ruin round, and woe, and death ;
Oh give to him the flowing bowl !
Bid it humanize his soul !
He shall not feel the empire's weight ;
He shall not feel the cares of state ;
The bowl shall each dark thought beguile.
And Nations live and prosper from his smile.

Hush'd was the lute, the Hebrew ceased the song,
Long peals of plaudits echoed from the throng ;
All tongues the liberal words of praise repaid.
On every cheek a smile applauding play'd ;
The rival Bard approach'd, he struck the string,
And pour'd the lollier song to Persia's King.

Whv should llie wearying cares of state
Oppress the Monarch with their weight?

Alike to him if peace shall bless

The multitude with happiness;

100

THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAN.

Alike to him if Irenzied War
Career triuiiiphaiit on the embattled plain,
And rolling on o'er myriads slain,
With gore and wounds shall clog his scythed car.

What though the tempest rage? no sound
Of the deep thunder shakes his distant throne ;
And the red flash that spreads destruction round
llellects a glorious splendor on the crown.

Where is the Man who with ennobling pride
Regards not his own nature .' where is he
Who without awe can see
The mysteries of the human mind,
The miniature of Deity.'
For Man the vernal clouds descending

Shower down their fertilizing rain ;
For Man the ripen'd harvest bending
Waves with soft murmur o'er the plenteous plain.
He spreads the sail to catch the favoring gale,
Or sweeps with oars the main ;
For him the winds of heaven subservient blow,
Earth teems for him, for him the waters flow.
He thinks, and wills, and acts, a Deity below !

Where is the King who with elating pride
Sees not this Man, this godlike Man his slave 'I
Mean are the mighty by the Monarch's side ;
Alike the wise, alike the brave
With timid step and pale, advance,
And tremble at the royal glance ;
Suspended millions watch his breath.
Whose smile is happiness, whose frown is death.

Why goes the Peasant from that little cot,

Where Peace and Love have blest his humble life .'

In vain his wretched wife

With tears bedews her husband's face.

And clasps him in a long and last embrace ;

In vain his children round his bosom creep,

And weep to sec their mother weep,
Fettering their father with their little arms !
What are to him the war's alarms r
What are to him the distant foes .'
Ho at the earliest dawn of day
To daily labor went his way,
And when he saw the sun decline.
He sat in peace beneath his vine.
The King commands, the peasant goes,
From all he loved on earth he flies,
And for his monarch toils, and fights, and bleeds,
and dies.

What though yon city's castled wall
Casl o'er the darken'd plain its crested shade.'
What though her Priests in earnest terror call
On all their host of Gods to aid .'
Vain is the bulwark, vain the tower !

In vain her gallant youth expose
Their breasts, a bulwark, to the foes 1
In vain at that tremendous hour,
Clasp'd in the savage soldier's reeking arms.
Shrieks to deaf Heaven the violated Maid I
By the rude hand of Ruin scatter'd round.
Their moss-grown towers shall spread the desert
ground.

Low shall the mouldering palace lie,
Amid the princely halls the grass wave high,
And through the shattcr'd roof descend the in
clement sky.

Gay o'er the embattled plain
Moves yonder warrior train ;
Their banners wanton on the morning gale ,
Full on their bucklers beams the rising ray;
Their glittering helms give glory to the day;
The shout of war rings echoing o'er the vale.
Far reaches as the aching eye can strain
The splendid horror of their wide array

Ah ! not in vain expectant, o'er
Their glorious pomp the vultures soar !
Amid the Conqueror's palace high
Shall sound the song of victory ;
Long after journeying o'er the plain
The traveller shall with startled eye [ter sky
See their white bones then blanched by many a w in

Lord of the earth ! we will not raise
The temple to thy bounded praise ;
For thee no victim need expire,
For thee no altar blaze with hallow'd fire ;
The burning City flames for thee,
Thine Altar is the field of victory !
Thy sacred Majesty to bless
Man a self-ofTer'd victim freely flies;

To thee he sacrifices happiness.
And peace, and Love's endearing ties ;
To thee a Slave he lives, for thee a Slave he dies.

liush'd was the lute, the Hebrew ceased to sing;
The shout burst forth, " Forever live the King ! "
Loud was the uproar, as when Rome's decree
Pronounced Achaia once again was free ;
Assembled Greece enrapt with fond belief [Chief
Heard the false boon, and bless'd the treacherous
Each breast with freedom's holy ardor glows,
From every voice the cry of rapture rose ;
Their thundering clamors rend the astonished sky.
And birds o'erpassing hear, and drop, and die.
Thus o'er the Persian dome their plaudits ring.
And the high hall rer-choed — " Live the King! "
The mutes bow'd reverent down before their Lord,
The assembled Satraps envied and adored,
Joy sparkled in the Monarch's conscious eyes.
And his pleased pride already dooni'd the prize.

Silent they saw Zorobabel advance :
He to Apame turn'd his timid glance ;
With downward eye he paused, a moment mute,
Then with light finger touch'd the softer lute.
Apame knew the Hebrew's grateful cause,
And bent her head, and sweetly smiled applause.

Why is the warrior's check so red .'
AVhy downward droops his musing head ?
Why that slow step, that faint advance,
That keen yet quick retreating glance.'
That crested head in war tower'd high ;
No backward glance disgraced that eye,
No flushing fear that check o'erspread.
When stern he strode o'er heaps of dead :

THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAN

101

Stranjje tiumilt now liis bosom inovos, —
The Warrior li-ars because he loves.

Why does tlie Youth deliglit to rove
Airiid the dark and lonely grove ?
Why in the throng where all are gay,
With absent eyes from gayety distraught,
Sits he alone in silent thought?

Silent he sits, for far away
His passion'd soul delights to stray ;
Recluse he roves as if he fain vpould shun
All human-kind, because he loves but One I

Yes, King of Persia, thou art blest!

But not because the sparkling bowl

To rapture elevates tiiy waken'd soul ;

But not because of power possest ;

Nor that the Nations dread thy nod.
And princes reverence thee their earthly God !
Even on a monarch's solitude
Will Care, dark visitant, intrude ;

The bowl brief pleasure can bestow ;

The purple cannot shield from woe ;

But, King of Persia, thou art blest,
For Heaven who raised thee thus the world above,
Hath made thee happy in Apame's love!

Oh ! I have seen him fondly trace
Tlie heavenly features of her face,
Rove o'er her form with eager eye,
And sigh and gaze, and gaze and sigh.
See ! from his brow with mimic frown
Apame takes the sacred crown ;
Those sparkling eyes, that radiant face,
Give to the diadem new grace :
And subject to a Woman's laws,
Darius sees, and smiles applause I

He ceased, and silent still remain'd the throng,
Wliile rapt attention own'd the power of song.
Then, loud as when the wintry whirlwinds blow,
From every voice the thundering plaudits flow ;
Darius smiled, Apame's sparkling eyes
Glanced on the King, and Woman won the prize.

Now silent sate the expectant crowd : Alone
The victor Hebrew gazed not on the throne ;
With deeper hue his cheek distemper'd glows,
With statelier stature loftier now he rose ;
Heavenward he gazed, regardless of the throng,
And pour'd with awful voice sublimer song.

"Ancient of days! Eternal Truth ! one hymn,
One holier strain the Bard shall raise to Thee,
Thee Powerful ! Thee Benevolent ! Thee Just !
Friend! Father! All in all!— The Vine's rich
hlood, [charms,

The Monarch's might, and Woman's conquering
These shall we praise alone .' — O ye who sit
Beneath your vine, and quaff at evening hour
The healthful bowl, remember Him whose dews,
Whose rains, whose sun, matured the growing fruit.
Creator and Preserver! — Reverence Him,
O Thou who from thy throne dispensest life
And death, for He hath delegated power,

And thou siialt one dav at the throne of God

Render thy strict account! — And ye who gaze

Enrapt on Beauty's fascinating form.

Gaze on with love ; and loving beauty, learn

'J\) shun abhorrent all the menUil eye

Beholds dcform'd and foul ; for so shall Love

Climb to the source of goodness. God of Truth I

All Just! All Mighty ! I should ill deserve

Thy noblest gift, the gift divine of song,

11", so content with ear-deep melodies

To please all-profitless, I did not pour

Severer strains, — of Truth — eternal Truth,

Unchanging Justice, universal Love.

Such strains awake the Soul to loftiest thoughts ;

Such strains the blessed Spirits of the Good

Waft, grateful incense, to the Halls of Heaven."

The dying notes still murmur'd on the string,
When from his throne arose the raptured King.
About to speak he stood, and waved his hand.
And all expectant sate the obedient band.

Then just and generous, thus the Monarch cries,
"Be thine, Zorobabcl, the well-earn'd prize.
The purple robe of state thy form shall fold.
The beverage sparkle in thy cup of gold,
The golden couch, the car, and honor'd chain,
Requite the merits of thy favor'd strain,
And raised supreme the ennobled race among.
Be call'd My Cousin for the victor song.
Nor these alone the victor song shall bless ;
Ask what tliou wilt, and what lliou wilt possess."

"Fallen is Jerusalem ! " the Hebrew cries,
And patriot anguish fills his streaming eyes,
" Hurl'd to the earth by Rapine's vengeful rod,
Polluted lies the temple of our God ;
Far in a foreign land her sons remain,
Hear the keen taunt, and drag the galling chain ;
In fruitless woe they wear the weary years,
And steep the bread of bitterness in tears.
O Monarch, greatest, mildest, best of men.
Restore us to those ruin'd walls again '
Allow us to rebuild that sacred dome.
To live in liberty, and die at Home."

So spake Zorobabel. — Thus Woman's praise
Avail'd again Jerusalem to raise,
Call'd forth the sanction of the Despot's nod,
And freed the Nation best beloved of God.

Bri.rton Caitsewaij, 1793.

WAT TYLER;

A DRAMA.

Twenty years a^o, upon the surrrptitioiis ptihlication of this
notahic Driima, ami the use which was made of it, I said
what it tli'.ii lieiame nie to say in a letter to one of those
gentlemen who thoii:.'lit proper to revile mc, not for having
enlertainefl deniorratien! opinions, hut lor having outgrown
them, and learnt to appreciate and to defend the institutions
of my country.

102

WAT TYLER,

Had I wriitiii lewilly in my youth, like licza, — like Ik-za, I
would ask pardon of God and iiiuii ; and no considerations
should in<luco ine to reprint what I coulil never think of
without sorrow and shame. Had 1 at any tin\e, like St.
Augustine, taught dot'trines whieh I afterwards perceived
to be erroneous, — and if, as in his cuso, my position in
society, and the estimation in which I was held, gave weight
to what I had advanced, and made those errors dangerous to
others, — like St. .\ugustine, I would publish uiy retrac-
tations, and endeavor to counteract t!ie evil which, though
erringly, with no evil intention, I had caused.

Wherefore then, it may be asked, have I included Wat Tyler
in this authentic collection of my poetical works ? For
these reasons, — that it may not be supposed 1 think it any
reproach to h.ive written it, or that I am more ashamed of
having been a republican, than of having been a boy. Qiii-
ciinqiie ista lectitri s'lnty jioii me imitnitur erranteni, scd in vulitu-<
j)roficieiitcm. Ineenut ciiimfurlasse, quumodu ncriheiido pro-
ftccrhn, quisqais opitscula mea, ordiiie quo scripla sunt,
Irgcrit.*

1 have endeavored to correct in my other juvenile pieces such
faults as were corrigible. Uut Wat Tyler a])pears just as
it was written, in the course of three mornings, in 179-1 ;
the stolen copy, which was committed to the press twenty-
three years afterwards, not having undergone the slightest
correction of any kind.

ACT 1.

Scene. A Blacksmith's shop; Wat Tyler at
work within; a May-pole before the door.

Alice, Piers, &c.

SONG.

Cheerful on this holiday,
Welcome we the merry May.

On every sunny hillock spread,
The pale primrose lifts her head ;
llich with sweets, the western gale
Sweeps along the cowslip'd dale ;
Every bank, with violets gay,
Smiles to welcome in the May.

The linnet from tlie budding grove
Chirps her vernal song of love.
The copse resounds the throstle's notes ;
On each wild gale sweet music floats ;
And melody from every spray
Welcomes in the merry May.

Cheerful on this holiday.

Welcome we the merry May. [Dance.

[During the thmce, Tyler lays down his hammer,
and sits mournfully down before the door.

Hob Carter. Why so sad, neiglibor ? — do not
these gay sports,
This revelry of youth, recall the days
When we too mingled in the revelry.
And lightly tripping in the morris dance.
Welcomed the merry month .'

Tyler. Ay, we were young ;

No cares had quell'd the heyday of the blood ;
We sported deftly in the April morning,

* St. Augustine.

Nor mark'd the black clouds gathering o'er our
Nor fear'd the storm of night. [noon,

Hob. Beshrew me, Tyler,

But my heart joys to see the imps so clieerful !
Young, hale, and hapj)y, why should they destroy
These blessings by reflection .'

Tyler. Look ye, neighbor —

You have known me long.

Hob. Since we were boys together,

And play'd at barley-brake, and danced the niorr'-**.
Some five-and-twunty years !

Tyler. Was not / young.

And hale, and happy .'

Hob. Cheerful as the best. [man ?

Tyler. Have not I been a staid, hard-working
Up with the lark at labor ; sober, honest.
Of an unbleinish'd character .'

Hob. Who doubts it .'

There's never a man in Essex bears a better.

Tyler. And shall not these, though young, and
hale, and happy,
Look on with sorrow to the future hour ?
Shall not reflection poison all their pleasures .-'
When 1 — the honest, staid, hard-v.forking Tyler,
Toil through the long course of the summer's day,
Still toiling, yet still poor ! when with hard labor
Scarce can 1 furnish out my daily food.
And age comes on to steal away my strength,
And leave me poor and wretched ! Why should

this be .'
My youth was regular — my labor constant —
I married an industrious, virtuous woman ;
Nor while 1 toil'd and sweated at the anvil,
Sat she neglectful of her spinning-wheel.
Hob ! 1 have only six groats in the world,
And they must soon by law be taken from me.

Hob. Curse on these taxes — one succeeds an
other —
Our ministers, panders of a king's will.
Drain all our wealth away, waste it in revels.
And lure, or force away our boys, who should be
The props of our old age, to fill their armies.
And feed the crows of France. Year follows year,
And still we madly prosecute the war ;
Draining our wealth, distressing our poor jx-asants.
Slaughtering our youths — and all to crown our

chiefs
With glory ! — I detest the hell-sprung name.

Tyler. What matters me who wears the crown
of France ?
Whether a Richard or a Charles possess it ?
They reap the glory — they enjoy the spoil —
We pay — we bleed! The sun would shine as
The rains of heaven as seasonably fall, [chcerly.
Though neither of these royal pests existed.

Hob. Nay, as for that, we poor men should faro
better ;
No legal robbers then should force away
The hard-earn'd wages of our honest toll.
The Parliament forever cries more money ;
The service of the state demands more money.
Just lieaven ! of what service is the state ?

Tyler. Oh, 'tis of vast imi)ortance ! who should
The luxuries and riots of the court? [pay for

Who should support the flaunting courtier's pride,

WAT TYLER.

103

Pay for tlieir inidni<rlit revels, their ric.li garments,
Did not the state enforce r — Tliink ye, my friend,
That I, a humble blacksmith, here at Deptford,
Would part with these six groats — earn'd by hard
toii,

All that 1 have ! to massacre the Frenchmen,

Murder as enemies men I never saw I

Did not the state compel me ?

( T,ix-<Tatlicrcrs pass by.) There they go,

Privileged ruffians I [Piers ^ .Uicc advance to /tiin.

Mice. Did we not dance it well to-day, my fa-
ther ?
Vou know I always loved these village sports.
Even from my infancy, and yet methinks
I never tripp'd along the mead so gayly.
You know they chose me queen, and your friend

Piers
Wreathed me tliis cowslip garland for my head —
Is it not simple ? — You are sad, my father !
You should have rested from your work to-day,
And given a few hours up to merriiuent —
But you are so serious !

Tyler. Serious, my good girl !

I may well be so : when I look at thee.
It makes me sad ! thou art too fair a flower
To bear the wintry wind of poverty.

Piers. Yd I have often heard you speak of
riches
Even with contempt ; they cannot purchase peace.
Or innocence, or virtue ; sounder sleep
Waits on the weary ploughman's lowly bed.
Than on the downy couch of luxury
Lulls the rich slave of pride and indolence.
I never wish for wealth ; my arm is strong.
And I can purchase by it a coarse meal.
And hunger savors it.

Tyler. Y'oung man, thy mind

Has yet to learn the hard lesson of experience.
Thou art yet young : the blasting breath of want
Has not yet froze the current of thy blood.

Piers. Fare not the birds well, as from spray to
spray,
Blithesome they bound, yet find their simple food
Scatter'd abundantly .''

Tyler. No fancied boundaries of mine and thine
Restrain their wanderings. Nature gives enougii
For all ; but Man, with arrogant selfishness.
Proud of liis heaps, hoards up superfluous stores
Hobb'd from his weaker fellows, starves tlie poor.
Or gives to pity what he owes to justice !

Piers. So I have heard our good friend John
Ball preach. [prison'd .'

Alice. My father, wherefore was John Ball im-
Was he not charitable, good, and pious ?
1 have heard him say that all mankind arc brethren.
And that like brethren they should love each other ;
Was not that doctrine pious ?

Tyler. Rank sedition —

High treason, every syllable, my child !
The priests cry out on him for heresy,
The nobles all detest him as a rebel.
And this good man, this minister of Christ,
This man, the friend and brother of mankind,
Lingers in the dark dungeon I — My dear Alice,
Retire awhile. [Exit Mice.

Piers, I would speak to thee,
Even with a fiither's love ! you are much with me,
And 1 believe do court my conversation ;
Thou could'st not choose thee forth a truer friend.
I would liiin see tliie haj>py, but 1 iear
Thy very virtues will destroy thy peace.
My daughter — she is young — not yet fifteen :
Piers, thou art generous, and thy youthful heart
Warm with afiection; this close intimacy
Will ere long grow to love.

Piers. Suppose it so ;

Were that an evil, Walter.' She is mild.
And clieerful, and industrious : — now methinks
With such a partner life would be most happy !
Why would ye warn me then of wretchedness '
Is there an evil that can harm our lot.'
I have been told the virtuous must be happy,
And have believed it true : tell me, my friend.
What shall disturb the virtuous .'

Tyler. Poverty,

A bitter foe.

Piers. Nay, you have often told me

That happiness does not consist in riches.

Tyler. It is most true ; but tell me, my dear boy,
Could'st thou be happy to behold thy wife
Pining with want.' the children of your loves
Clad in the squalid rags of wretchedness.'
And, when thy hard and unremitting toil
Had earn'd with pain a scanty recompense,
Could'st thou be patient when the law should rob

thee.
And leave thee without bread, and penniless .'

Piers. It is a dreadful picture.

Tyler. 'Tis a true one.

Piers. But yet methinks our sober industry
Might drive away the danger ! 'tis but little
That I could wish ; food for our frugal meals.
Raiment, however homely, and a bed
To shield us from the night.

Tyler. 1"hy honest reason

Could wish no more ; but were it not most wretched
To want the coarse food for the frugal ineal .'
And by the orders of your merciless lord.
If you by chance were guilty of being poor,
To be turn'd out adrift to the bleak world.
Unhoused, unfriended.' — Piers, I have not been

idle',
1 never ate tlie bread of indolence ;
Could Alice be more thrifty than her mother.'
Yet with but one child, — and that one how good.
Thou knowest, — I scarcely can provide the wants
Of nature : look at these wolves of the law.
They come to drain me of my hard-earn'd wages.
I have already paid the heavy tax
Laid on the wool that clothes me, on my leather.
On all the needful articles of life I
And now- three groats (and I work'd hard to earn

them)
The Parliament demands — and I must pay them,
Forsooth, for liberty to wear my head.

[Enter Tax-gatherers.

Collector. Three groats a head for all your
family.

Piers. Why is this money gather'd .' 'tis a hard
tax

104

WAT TYLER.

On the j)r>or laborer ! It can never be
That Government should thus distress the people.
Go to the rich for money — honest labor
Ought to enjoy its fruits.

Collector. The state wants money ;

War is expensive — 'tis a glorious war,
A war of honor, and must be supported. —
Three groats a head.

Tyler. There, three for my own head,

Three for my wife's ; what will the state tax next.'
Collector. You have a daughter.
Tyler. She is below the age — not yet fifteen.
Collector. You would evade the tax.
Tyler. Sir Officer,

I have j)aid 3'ou fairly what the law demands.
[jIUcc and her motlier enter the shop. The Tax-
gatherers go to her. One of them lays hold of
her. She screams. — Tyler goes in.
Collector. You say she's under age.
[Alice screams again. Tyler knocks out the Tax-
gatherer s brains. His companions fy.
Piers. A just revenge. [law

Tyler. Most just indeed; but in the eye of the
'Tis murder : and the murderer's lot is mine.

[Piers goes out — Tyler sits down mournfully.
.Ilice. Fly, my dear father ! let us leave this place
Before they raise pursuit.

Tyler. Nay, nay, my child,

Flio-lit would be useless — I have done my duty ;
1 liave punish'd the brute insolence of lust,
And here will wait my doom.

Wife. Oil, let us fly,

ISly husband, my dear husband !

Mice. Quit but this place,

And we may yet be safe, and happy too.

Tyler. It would be useless, Alice ; 't would but
lengthen
A wretched life in fear.

[Cry 7C(</iO?/<, Liberty, Liberty! Enter Mob, Hob
Carter, c^-c. crying Liberty ! Liberty ! No
Foil-tax I No War !
Hub. We have broke our chains ; we will arise
in anger ;
The mighty multitude shall trample down
The handful that oppress them.

Tyler. Have ye heard

So soon then of my murder .'

Hob. Of your vengeance.

Piers ran throughout tlie village : told the news —
Cried out, To arms ! — arm, arm for liberty ;
For Liberty and Justice !

Tyler. My good friends.

Heed well your danger, or be resolute !
Learn to laugh menaces and force to scorn.
Or leave me. I dare answer the bold deed —
Death must come once : return ye to your homes.
Protect my wife and child, and on my grave
Write why I died ; perhaps the time may come.
When honest Justice shall applaud the deed.
Hob. Nay, nay, we are oppress'd, and have too
long
Knelt at our proud lords' feet; we have too long
Obey'd their orders, bow'd to their caprices.
Sweated for them the wearying summer's day.
Wasted for them the wages of our toil,

Fought for them, conquer'd for them, bled for them,
Still to be trampled on, and still despised !
But we have broke our chains.

Tom Miller. Piers is gone on

Through all the neighboring villages, to spread
The glorious tidings.

Hob. He is hurried on

To Maidstone, to deliver good John Ball,
Our friend, our shepherd. [Mob increases-

Tyler. Friends and countrymen.

Will ye then rise to save an honest man
From the fierce clutches of the bloody law '
Oh, do not call to mind my private wrongs, [me.
That the state drain'd m}' hard-earn'd pittance from
Tliat, of his office proud, tlie foul Collector
Durst with lewd hand seize on my darling child.
Insult her maiden modesty, and force
.\ fiither's hand to vengeance ; heed not this ;
Tliink not, my countrymen, on private wrongs ;
Remember what yourselves have long endured;
Think of" the insults, wrongs, and contumelies,
Ye bear from your proud lords — that your hard toil
Manures their fertile fields — you plough the eartli.
You sow the corn, you reap tlie ripen'd harvest, —
They riot on the produce ! — that, like beasts.
They sell you with their land, claim all the fruits
Which the kindly earth produces, as their own.
The privilege, forsooth, of noble birth!
On, on to freedom ; feel but your own strength.
Be but resolved, and these destructive tyrants
Shall shrink before your vengeance.

Hob. On to London, —

The tidings fly before us — the court trembles, —
Liberty — Vengeance — Justice.

ACT II.

Scene I. Blackheath.
Tyler, Hob, &c.

SONG.

' When Adam delved and Eve span,
Who was then the gentleman .' '

Wretched is the infant's lot.
Born within the straw-roof'd cot;
Be he generous, wise, or brave,
He must only be a slave.
Long, long labor, little rest.
Still to toil to be oppress'd ;
Drain'd by taxes of his store,
Punish'd next for being poor :
This is the poor wretch's lot,
Born within the straw-roofd cot.

While the peasant works, — to sleep,
What the peasant sows, — to reap.
On the couch of ease to lie,
Ptioting in revelry ;
Be he villain, be he fool.
Still to hold despotic rule,
Trampling on his slaves with scorn '
This is to be nobly born.

W^T TYLER.

105

' WIuMi Adam ili^lvcd and Eve span,
Who was llii'ii the ircntlenian? '

Jack Straw. Tlu^ mob arc up in London — tlio
proud courtiers
Bi'ijin to tremble.

Tom Miller. A3', ay, 'tis time to tremble :

WhoU plough their fields, who'll do their drud-
gery now,
And work like liorses to give them the harvest?
Jack Straw, i only wonder why we lay quiet so
long.
We had always the same strength ; and wo

deserved
The ills we met with for not using it.

II lb. Why do we fear those animals call'd lords .'
What is there in the name to frighten us .'
Is not my arm as mighty as a Baron's ?

Enter Piers and Joii.n Ball.

Piers, {to Tyler.) Have 1 done well, my
father .' 1 remember'd
This good man lay in prison.

Tyler. JNIy dear child,

Most well ; the people rise for liberty.
And their first deed should be to break the chains
That binds the virtuous ; — Oh, thou honest priest,
How much hast thou endured !

John Ball. Why, ay, my friend !

These squalid rags bespeak what I have suffered.
I was reviled, insulted, left to languish
In a damp dungeon ; but 1 bore it cliccrily —
My heart was glad — for I had done my duty.
I pitied my oppressors, and I sorrow'd
For the poor men of England.

Tyler. They have felt

Their strength: look round this heath ; 'tis throng'd

with men
Ardent for freedom : mighty is the event
That waits their fortune.

John Ball. I would fain address them.

Tyler. Do so, my friend, and preach to tliem
their duty.
Remind them of their long-withholden rights.
What ho ! there ; silence !

Piers. Silence, tliere, my friends ;

This good man would address you.

Hob. Ay, ay, hear him ;,

He is no mealy-mouth'd court-orator.
To flatter vice, and pamper lordly pride.

John Ball. Friends, brethren ! for ye are my
brethren all ;
Englishmen, met in arms to advocate
The cause of freedom, hear me ; pause awhile
In the career of vengeance! — It is true
I am a priest, but, as these rags may speak.
Not one who riots in the poor man's spoil,
Or trades with his religion. I am one
W^lu) preach the law of Christ; and, in my life.
Would practise what he taught. The Son of God
Came not to you in power: humble in mien,
fiOwly in heart, the man of Nazareth
Preach'd mercy, justice, love : " Woe unto ye,
Ye that are rich : if that ye would be saved.
Sell that ye have, and give unto the poor."
14

So taught the Savior. Oh, my honest friends.

Have ye not felt the strong, indignant throb

Of justice in your bosoms, to behold

The lordly Baron feasting on your spoils .'

Have you not in your hearts arraign'd the lot

That gave hup on the couch of lu.xury

To pillow his head, and pass the festive day

In sportive feasts, and ease, and revelry.'

Have you not often in 3'our conscience ask'd.

Why istho ditference ; wherefore should that man.

No worthier than myself, thus lord it over me,

.\nd bid me labor, and enjoy the fruits?

Tiie God within your breasts has argued thus :

The voice of truth has murmur'd. Came ye not

As helpless to the world? Shines not the sun

With equal ray on both ? Do ye not feel

The self-same wind.s of heaven as keenly parch ye ?

Abundant is the earth — the Sire of all

Saw and pronounced that it was very good.

Look round : the vernal fields smile with new

flowers,
The budding orchard perfumes the sweet breeze.
And the green corn waves to the passing gale.
There is enough for all ; but your proud Baron
Stands up, and, arrogant of strength, exclaims,
" I am a Lord — by nature I am noble :
These fields are mine, for I was born to them ;
I was born in the castle — you, poor wretches,
Whelp'd in the cottage, are by birth my slaves."
Almighty God ! such blasphemies are utter'd :
Almighty God ! such blasphemies believed I

Turn. Miller. This is something like a sermon.

Jack Straic. Where's the bishop

Would tell you truths like these ? [apostles

Hob. There never was a bishop among all the

John Ball. My brethren

Piers. Silence ; the good priest speaks

John Ball. My brethren, these are truths, and
weighty ones ;
Ye are all equal : nature made ye so.
Equality is j-our birthright. — When I gaze
On the proud palace, and behold one man
In the blood-purpled robes of royalt}'.
Feasting at ease, and lording over millions,
Then turn me to the hut of poverty.
And see the wretched laborer, worn with toil.
Divide his scanty morsel with his infants,
I sicken, and, indignant at the sight,
" Blush for the patience of humanity."

Jack Straic. We will assert our rights.

Tom Miller. We'll trample down

These insolent oppressors.

John Ball. In good truth.

Ye have cause for anger : but, my honest friends.
Is it revenge or justice that ye seek ?

Mob. Justice I Justice '

John Ball. Oh, then remember mercy ;
And though your proud oppressors spare not you.
Show you excel them in humanity.
They will use every art to disunite you ;
To conquer separately, by stratagem.
Whom in a mass they fear ; — but be ye firm ;
Boldly demand your long-forgotten rights.
Your sacred, your inalienable freedom.
Be bold — be resolute — be merciful

106

WAT TYLER,

And while you spurn the hated name of slaves,
Show you are men.

Mob. Long live our honest priest.

Jack Strata. He shall be made archbishop.

John Ball. My brethren, 1 am plain John Ball,
your friend, g

Your equal : by the law of Christ enjoin'd
To serve you, not command.

Jack Straw. March we for London.

Tyicr. Mark me, my friends — we rise for Lib-
erty—
Justice shall be our guide : let no man dare
To plunder in the tumult.

Mob. Lead us on. Liberty ! Justice !

[Exeunt, toith cries of Liberty ! No Poll-tax !
No War.

Scene IL The Toicer.

King Richard, Archbishop of Canterbury,
Sir John Tresilian, Walworth, Philpot.

King. What must we do ? the danger grows
more imminent.
The mob increases.

Philpot. Every moment brings

Fresh tidings of our peril.

King. It were well

To grant them what they ask.

.Archbishop. Ay, that, my liege

Were politic. Go boldly forth to meet them,
Grant all they ask — however wild and ruinous —
Meantime, the troops you have already suinmon'd
Will gather round them. Then my Christian power
Absolves you of your promise. [the rabble

Walworth. Were but their ringleaders cut off,
Would soon disperse.

Philpot. United in a mass.

There's nothing can resist them — once divide them.
And they will fall an easy sacrifice. [them fair.

Archbishop. Lull them by promises — bespeak
Go forth, my liege — spare not, if need requires
A solemn oath to ratify the treaty.

King. I dread their fury.

.Archbishop. 'Tis a needless dread ;

There is divinity about your person ;
It is the sacred privilege of Kings,
Howe'er they act, to render no accftunt
To man. The people have been taught this lesson,
Nor can they soon forget it.

King. 1 will go —

I will submit to every thing they ask ;
My day of triumph will arrive at last. [Shouts
without.

Enter Messenger.

Messenger. The mob are at the city gates.

.Archbishop. Hasts ! Haste !

Address them ere too late. I'll remain here.
For they detest me much. [Shouts again.

Enter another Messenger

Mess. The Londoners have open'd the city gates ;
The rebels are admitted. [mayor.

King. Fear then must give me courage. My lord
Come you with me. [Exeunt. Shouts without.

Scene HI. Smithjicld.

Wat Tyler, John Ball, Piers, ^'C Mob.

Piers. So far triumphant are we. How these
nobles.
These petty tyrants, who so long oppress'd us.
Shrink at the first resistance !

Ilob. They were powerful

Only because we fondly thought them so.
Where is Jack Straw .-'

Tyler. Jack Straw is gone to the Tower

To seize the king, and so to end resistance.

John Ball. It was well judged ; fain would I
spare the shedding
Of human blood : gain we that royal puppet,
And all will follow fairly ; deprived of him,
The nobles lose their pretext, nor will dare
Rebel against the people's majesty.

Enter Herald.

Herald. Richard the Second, by the grace of God,
Of England, Ireland, France, and Scotland, King,
And of the town of Berwick-upon-Tweed,
Would parley with Wat Tyler.

Tyler. Let him know

Wat Tyler is in Smithfield. [Exit Herald .] — I will

parley
With this young monarch : as he comes to me,
Trusting my honor, on your lives I charge you
Let none attempt to harm him.

John Ball. The faith of courts

Is but a weak dependence. You are honest —
And better is it even to die the victim
Of credulous honesty, than live preserved
By the cold policy that still suspects.

Enter King, Walworth, Philpot, <^c.

King. I would speak to thee, Wat Tyler : bid
Retire awhile. [the mob

Piers. Nay, do not go alone —

Let me attend you.

Tyler. Wherefore should I fear.'

Am I not arm'd with a just cause .' Retire,
And I will boldly plead the cause of Freedom.

[Jidvances.

King. Tyler, why l)ave you kill'd my officer.
And led my honest subjects from their homes.
Thus to rebel against the Lord's anointed .'

Tyler. Because they were oppress'd.

King. Was this the way

To remedy the ill .' You should have tried
By milder means — petition'd at the throne —
The throne will always listen to petitions.

Tyler. King of England,

Petitioning for pity is most weak —
The sovereign people ought to demand justice.
I kill'd your officer, for his lewd hand
Insulted a maid's modesty. Your subjects
I lead to rebel against the Lord's anointed.
Because his ministers have made him odious ;
His yoke is heavy, and his burden grievous.
Why do we carry on this fatal war,
To force upon the French a king they hate.
Tearing our young men from their peaceful homes,

WAT TYLER.

107

Forcing liis liard-eani'd fruits from the honest

peasant,
Distressing us to desolate our neiglibors ?
WJiy is this ruinous poll-tax imposed,
liut to support your court's extravagance,
And your mad title to the crown of France ?
Shall we sit tamely down beneath these evils
Petitioning for pity ? King of England,
Wliy are we sold like cattle in your markets —
Deprived of every privilege of man ?
Must we lie tamely at our tyrant's feet.
And, like your spaniels, lick the hand that beats us ?
You sit at ease in your gay palaces !
The costly banquet courts your appetite ;
Sweet music soothes your slumbers : we, the while.
Scarce by hard toil can earn a little food, [wind ;
And sleep scarce shelter'd from the cold night
Whilst your wild projects wrest the little from us
Which might have cheer'd the wintry hour of age.
The Parliament forever asks more money ;
We toil and sweat for money for your taxes :
Where is the benefit, what good reap we
From all the counsels of your government .'
Think you that we should quarrel with tjie French?
What boots to us your victories, your glory ?
We pay, we fight, you profit at your ease.
Do you not claim the country as your own '
Do you not call the venison of the forest.
The birds of heaven, your own ? — prohibiting us.
Even though in want of food, to seize the prey
Whlcli nature offers. King ! is all this just.^
Think you we do not feel the wrongs we suffer.'
The hour of retribution is at hand,
And tyrants tremble — mark me, King of England !

Walworth, {comes behind him, and stabs kiiu.)
Insolent rebel, threatening the King !

Piers. Vengeance '. Vengeance I

Hob. Seize the King.

King. I must be bold, (.idrancing.)

My friends and loving subjects,
I will grant you all you ask; you shall be free —
The tax shall be repeal'd — all, all you wish.
Your leader menaced me ; he deservd his fate :
Quiet your angers : on my royal word
Your grievances shall all be done away ;
Your vassalage abolish'd. A free pardon
Allow'd to all : So help me God, it shall be.

John Ball. Revenge, my brethren, beseems not
Christians :
Send us these terms, sign'd with your seal of state.
We will await in peace. Deceive us not —
Act justly, so to excuse j'our late foul deed.

King. The charter shall be drawn out : on mine
honor
All shall be justly done.

ACT III.
Scene I. Smithjield.

John Ball, Piers, &c.

Piers, (to John Ball.) You look disturbed, my
father.

John Ball. Piers, I am so. [bishop.

Jack Straw has forced the tower ; sciz'd the Arch-
And beheaded him.

Piers. The curse of insurrection.

John Bull. Ay, Piers, our nobles level down
their vassals.
Keep them at endless labor, like their brutes,
Degrading every faculty by servitude.
Repressing all the energy of mind :
We must not wonder, tlien, that, like wild beasts.
When they have burst their chains, with brutal

rage
They revenge them on their tyrants.

Piers. This Archbishop,

He was oppressive to his humble vassals :
Proud, haughty, avaricious — —

John Ball. A true high priest,

Preaching humility with his mitre on;
Praising up alms and Christian charity.
Even whilst his unforgiving hand distress'd
flis honest tenants.

Piers. Ho deserved his fate, then.

John Ball. Justice can never link with cruelty.
Is there among the catiilogue of crimes
A sin so black that only Death can expiate ?
Will reason never rouse her from her slumbers.
And darting through the veil her eagle eye.
See in the sable garments of the law
Revenge conccal'd ? This high priest has been

haughty ;
He has oppress'd his vassals : tell me, Piers,
Does his death remedy the ills he caused .'
Were it not better to repress his power
Of doing wrong, that so his future life
Might remedy tlio evils of the past.
And benefit mankind ?

Piers. But must not vice

Be punish'd .'

John Ball. Is not punishment revenge ?
The momentary violence of anger
May be excused : the indignant heart will tlirob
Against oppression, and the outstretch'd arm
Resent its injured feelings. The Collector
Insulted Alice, and roused the keen emotions
Of a fond father. Tyler murder'd him.

Piers. Murder'd I — a most harsh word.

John Ball. Yes, murder'd him :

His mangled feelings prompted the bad act.
And Nature will almost commend the deed [ings
That Justice blames : but will the awaken'd feel-
Plead with their heart-emoving eloquence
For the calm, deliberate murder of Revenge.'
Would you, Piers, in your calmer hour of reason.
Condemn an erring brother to be slain ?
Cut him at once from all the joys of life.
All hopes of reformation — to revenge
The deed his punishment cannot recall .'
My blood boil'd in me at the fate of Tyler,
Yet I reveng'd not.

Piers. Oh, my Christian father,

They would not argue thus humanely on us.
Were we within their power.

John Ball. I know they would not;

But we must pity them that they are vicious.
Not imitate their vice.

1 08

WAT TYLER.

Piers. Alas, poor Tyler !

I do repent me much that 1 stood back,
When he advanced, fearless in rectitude,
To meet these royal assassins.

John Ball. Not for myself,

Though I have lost an honest, virtuous friend.
Mourn 1 the death of Tyler : he was one
Gifted with the strong energy of mind.
Quick to perceive the right, and prompt to act
When Justice needed : he would listen to me
With due attention, yet not yielding lightly
What had to him seem'd good : severe in virtue,
He awed the ruder people, whom he led,
By his stern rectitude.

Piers. Witness that day

When they destroy'd the palace of the Gaunt;
And hurl'd the wealth his avarice had amassed,
Ainid the fire : the people, fierce in zeal,
Threw in the flames a wretch whose selfish hand
Purloin'd amid the tumult.

John Ball. 1 lament

The death of Tyler for my country's sake.
1 shudder lest posterity, enslaved.
Should rue his murder. Who shall now control
The giddy multitude, blind to their own good.
And listening with avidity to the tale
Of courtly falsehood.'

Piers. The King must perform

His plighted promise.

{Cnj without — The Charter ! — the Charter !)

Enter Mob and Herald.

Tom Miller. Read it out — read it out.

Hob. Ay, ay, let's hear the Charter.

Herald. Richard Plantagenet, by the grace of
God, King of England, Ireland, France, Scotland,
and the town of Berwick-upon-Tweed, to all whom
it may concern, — These presents : Whereas our
loving subjects have complained to us of the heavy
burdens they endure, particularly from our late
enacted poll-tax ; and whereas they have risen in
arms against our otScers, and demanded the aboli-
tion of personal slavery, vassalage, and manorial
rights ; we, ever ready in our sovereign mercy to
listen to the petitions of our loving subjects, do
annul all these grievances.

Mob. Huzza! long live the King '.

Herald, (continues.) And do of our royal mercy
grant a free pardon to all who may have been any-
ways concerned in the late insurrections. All this
shall be faithfully performed, on our royal word ; so
help us God — God save the King !

ILoud and repeated shoiits.

Herald. Now then depart in quiet to your homes.

John Ball. Nay, my good friend, the people will
remain
Imbodled peaceably, till Parliament
Confirm the royal Charter : tell your King so:
We will await the Charter's confirmation,
Meanwhile comporting ourselves orderly.
As peaceful citizens, not risen in tumult,
But to redress their evils. [Exit Herald, ^-c.

Hob. 'Twas well ordered.

I place but little trust in courtly faith. [King

John Ball. We must remain imbodied ; else the

Will plunge again in royal luxury.

And when the storm of danger is past over,

Forget his promises.

Hob. Ay, like an aguish sinner,

He'll promise to repent, when the fit's on him;
When well recover'd, laugh at his own terrors.

Piers. Oh, 1 am grieved that we nmst gain so
little.
Why are not all these empty ranks abolish'd,
King, slave, and lord, ennobled into MAN .'
Are we not equal all .■' — have you not told me
Equality is the sacred right of man,
Inalienable, though by force withheld .'

John Ball. Even so: but, Piers, my frail and
fallible judgment
Knows hardly to decide if it be right
Peaceably to return, content with little,
With this half restitution of our rights,
Or boldly to proceed, through blood and slaughter.
Till we should all be equal and all happy.
I chose the milder way: — perhaps I err'd !

Piers. I fear me I By the mass, the unsteady
people
Are flocking homewards — how the multitude
Diminishes I

John Ball. Go thou, my son, and stay them.
Carter, do you exert your influence :
All depends upon their stay: my mind is troubled.
And I would fain compose my thoughts for action.

{Exeunt Hob and Piers.
Father of mercies ! 1 do fear me much
That I have err'd. Thou gavest my ardent mind
To pierce the mists of superstitious falsehood ; —
Gavest me to knov/ the truth. I should have

urged it
Through every opposition ; now, perhaps.
The seemly voice of pity lias deceived me,
And all this mighty movement ends in ruin.
1 fear me I have been like the weak leech.
Who, sparing to cut deep, with cruel mercy
Mangles his patient without curing him.

[ Great tumult.
What means this tumult.-' hark ! the clang of arms.
God of eternal justice — the false monarch
Has broke his plighted vow.

[Enter Piers wounded.

Piers. Fly, fly, my father — the perjured King,
-fly, fly.

John Ball. Nay, nay, my child ; I dare abide
• my fate.
Let me bind up thy wounds.

Piers. 'Tis useless succor.

They seek thy life ; fly, fly, my honored father,
And let me have the hope to sweeten death
That thou at least hast scaped. They are mur-
dering
Our unsuspecting brethren: half unarm'd,
Trusting too fondly to the tyrant's word, [blood.
They were dispersing; — the streets swim with
Oh, save thyself [Enter Soldiers.

1st Soldier. This is that old seditious heretic.

2d Soldier. And here the young spawn of re-
bellion :
My orders ar'n't to spare him. [Stabs Piers.

Come, you old stirrer-up of insurrection.

WAT TYLER.

109

You bell-wether oftlie mob — jou ar'n't to die
So easily. [Leading Itiin off.

{Mobjiij across the stage — the troops pursue them
— tumult increases — Loud cries and shouts.

Scene II. Westminster Hull.

King, Walworth, Piiilpot, Sir John
Tresilian, &c.

Walworth. My liege, 'twas wisely ordered to
destroy
The duiiohiU rabble, but take prisoner
That old seditious priest : his strange, wild notions
Ol'this equality, when well exposed.
Will create ridicule, and shame the people
or their late tumults.

Sir John. Ay, there's nothing like

A fair, free, open trial, where the King
Can choose his jury and appoint his judges.

King. Walworth, I must thank you for my de-
liverance,
'Twas a bold deed to stab him in the parley.
Kneel down, and rise a knight, Sir William
Walworth.

Enter Messenger.

Messenger. I left them hotly at it. Smitlifield
smoked
With the rebels' blood ! your troops fought loyally;
There's not a man of them will lend an ear
To pity.

Walworth. Is John Ball secured .'

Messenger. They have seized him.

Enter Guards, icith John Ball.

\st Guard. We've brought the old villain.

2d Guard. An old mischief-maker —

Why, there's fifteen hundred of the mob are killed.
All through his preaching.

air John Tr. Prisoner, are you the arch-rebel
John Ball .'

John Ball. I am John Ball ; but 1 am not a rebel.
Take ye the name, who, arrogant in strength,
Rebel against the people's sovereignty. [ring up

Sir John Tr. John Ball, you are accused of stir-
The poor deluded people to rebellion;
Not having the fear of God and of the King
Before your eyes ; of preaching up strange notions.
Heretical and treasonous ; such as saying
That kings have not a right from Heaven to govern ;
That all mankind are equal ; and that rank
And the distinctions of society,
Ay, and the sacred rights of property,
Are evil and oppressive : plead you guilty
To this most heavy charge .'

John Ball. Ifit be guilt

To preach what you are pleased to call strange

notions.
That all mankind as brethren must be equal ;
That privileged orders of society
Are evil and oppressive ; that the right
Of property is a juggle to deceive
The poor whom you oppress — I plead me guilty.

Sir John Tr. It is against the custom of this court
That the prisoner should plead guilty.

John Ball. Why then put you

The needless question.' Sir Judge, let me save
The vain and empty insult of a trial.
What I have done, that I dare justify.

Sir John Tr. Did you not tell the mob they were
oppress'd.
And preach uj)on the equality of man.
With evil intent thereby to stir them up
To tumult and rebellion ?

John Bull. That 1 told them

That all mankind are equal, is most true :
Ye came as helpless infiints to the world ;
Ye feel alike the infirmities of nature ;
And at last moulder into common clay. [earth

Why then these vain distinctions.' — bears not the
Food in abundance.' — must your granaries
O'crflov.' with plenty, while the poor man starves?
Sir Judge, why sit you there, clad in your furs.'
Why are your cellars stored with choicest wines.
Your larders hung with dainties, while your vassal.
As virtuous, and as able too by nature.
Though by your selfish tyranny deprived
Of mind's improvement, shivers in his rags,
And starves amid the plenty he creates .'
I have said this is wrong, and I repeat it —
And there will be a time when this great truth
Shall be confess'd — be felt by all mankind.
The electric truth shall run from man to man,
And the blood-cemented pyramid of greatness
Shall fall before the flash.

Sir John Tr. Audacious rebel !

How darest thou insult this sacred court,
Blaspheming all the dignities of rank.'
How could the Government be carried on
Without the sacred orders of the King
And the nobility .'

John Ball. Tell mo. Sir Judge,

What does the Government avail the peasant.'
Would not he plough his field, and sow the corn.
Ay, and in peace enjoy tlie harvest too .'
Would not the sun shine and the dews descend,
Thouo-h neither Kino- nor Parliament existed?
Do your court politics ought matter him ?
Would he be warring even unto death
With his French neighbors ? Charles and Richard

contend,
The people fight and suffer : — think ye. Sirs,
If neither country had been cursed with a chief,
The peasants would have quarrell'd?

King. This is treason !

The patience of the court has been insulted —
Condemn the foul-mouth'd, contumacious rebel.

Sir John Tr. John Ball, whereas you are accused
before us,
Of stirring up the people to rebellion.
And preaching to them strange and dangerous

kdoctrines ;
And whereas your behavior to the court
Has been most insolent and contumacious ;
Insulting Majesty — and since you have pleaded
Guilty to all these charges ; I condemn you
To death : you shall be hanged by the neck.
But not till you are dead — your bowels open'd —
Your heart torn out, and burnt before your face —
Your traitorous head be severed from your body —

no

POEMS CONCERNING THE SLAVE TRADE.

Your body quarter'd, and exposed upon

The city gates — a terrible example —

And the Lord God have inorcy on your soul.

John Ball. Why, be it so. I can smile at your
vengeance,
For I am arni'd with rectitude of soul.
The truth, which all my life 1 have divulged,
And am now doom'd in torments to expire for.
Shall still survive. The destined hour mustcome.
When it shall blaze with sun-surpassing splendor,
And the dark mists of prejudice and falsehood
Fade in its strong effulgence. Flattery's incense
No more shall shadow round the gore-dyed throne ;
That altar of oppression, fed with rites
More savage than the priests of Moloch taught,
Shall be consumed amid the fire of Justice ;
The rays of truth shall emanate around,
And the whole world be lighted.

King. Drag him hence :

Away with him to death ; order the troops
Now to give quarter, and make prisoners —
Let the blood-reeking sword of war be sheathed,
That the law may take vengeance on the rebels.

POEMS CONCERNING THE
SLAVE TRADE.

SONNET L

Hold your mad hands ! forever on your plain
Must the gorged vulture clog his beak with blood .'
Forever must your Niger's tainted flood
Roll to the ravenous shark his banquet slain ?
Hold your mad hands ! and learn at length to

know,
And turn your vengeance on the common foe.
Yon treacherous vessel and her godless crew !
Let never traders with false pretext fair
Set on your shores again tlieir wicked feet :
With interdict and indignation meet
Repel them, and with fire and sword pursue !
Avarice, the white, cadaverous fiend, is there.
Who spreads his toils accursed wide and far.
And for his purveyor calls the demon War.

SONNET IL

Why dost thou beat thy breast and rend thine hair.
And to the deaf sea pour thy frantic cries? ^
Before the gale the laden vessel flies ;
The Heavens all-favoring smile, the breeze is fair;
Hark to the clamors of the exulting crew !
Hark, how their cannon mock the patient skies !
Why dost thou shriek, and strain thy red-swollen

eyes,
As the white sail is lessening from thy view.'
Go, pine in want, and anguish, and despair ;

There is no mercy found in human-kind !
Go, Widow, to thy grave, and rest thee there !
But may the God of Justice bid the wind
Whelm that curst bark beneath the mountain wave,
And bless with liberty and death the Slave !

SONNET HI.

On, he is worn with toil ! the big drops run
Down his dark cheek j hold — hold thy merciless

hand.
Pale tyrant I for beneath thy hard command
O'erwearicd nature sinks. The scorching sun.
As pitiless as proud Prosperity,
Darts on him his full beams ; gasping he lies
Arraigning with his looks the patient skies,
While that inhuman driver lifts on high
The mangling scourge. O ye who at your ease
Sip the blood-sweeten'd beverage, thoughts like

these
Haply ye scorn : I thank thee, gracious God,
That I do feel upon my cheek the glow
Of indignation, when beneath the rod
A sable brother writhes in silent woe.

SONNET IV.

'Tis night ; the unrelenting owners sleep

As undisturb'd as Justice ; but no more

The o'erwearicd slave, as on his native shore,

Rests on his reedy couch : he wakes to weep.

Though through the toil and anguish of the day

No tear escaped him, not one suffering groan

Beneath the twisted thong, he weeps alone

In bitterness; thinking that far away

While happy Negroes join tlie midnight song.

And merriment resounds on Niger's shore,

She whom he loves, far from the cheerful throng

Stands sad, and gazes from her lowly door

With dim-grown eye, silent and woe-begone,

And weeps for him who will return no more.

SONNET V.

Dm then the Negro rear at last the sword

Of vengeance .'' Did he plunge its thirsty blade

In the hard heart of his inhuman lord .'

Oh, who shall blame him .'' in the midnight shade

There came on him the intolerable thought

Of every past delight; his native grove.

Friendship's best joys, and liberty and love.

Forever lost. Such recollections wrought

His brain to madness. Wherefore should he live

Longer with abject patience to endure

His wrongs and wretcliedness, when hope can give

No consolation, time can bring no cure .''

But justice for himself he yet could take.

And life is then well given for vengeance' sake.

POEMS CONCERNING THE SLAVE TRADE.

Ill

SONNET VI.

High in the air exposed the shive is hung,
To all the birds of'licavcn, their living food !
He groans not, though awaked by that fierce sun
New torturers live to drink their parent blood :
Ho oroans not, thouir'i tlie <roririnir vulture tear
The quivering fibre. Hither look, O ye
Who tore this man from peace and liberty !
Look hither, ye who weigh with politic care
Tlie gain against the guilt ! Beyond the grave
There is another world ! — bear ye in mind,
Ere your decree proclaims to all mankind
The gain is worth the guilt, that there the Slave,
Before the Eternal, " thunder-tongued shall plead
Against the deep damnation of your deed."

Brislol, 1794..

TO THE GENIUS OF AFRICA.

O THOU, who from the mountain's height

Rnllest thy clouds with all their weight

Of waters to old Nile's majestic tide ;

Or o'er the dark, sepulchral plain

Recallest Carthage in her ancient pride,

The mistress of the Main ;

Hear, Genius, hear thy children's cry !

Not always shouldst thou love to brood

Stern o'er the desert solitude

Where seas of sand heave their hot surges high ;

Nor, Genius, should the midnight song

Detain thee in some milder mood

The palmy plains among,

Where Gambia to the torches' light

Flows radiant through the awaken'd night.

Ah, linger not to hear the song !
Genius, avenge thy children's wrong!
The demon Avarice on your shore
Brings all the horrors of his train;
And hark I where from the field of gore
Howls the hyena o'er the slain !
Lo ! where the flaming village fires the skies,
Avenging Power, awake I arise !

Arise, thy children's wrongs redress I
Heed the mother's wretchedness,
When in the hot, infectious air
O'er her sick babe she bows opprest, —
Hear her when the Traders tear
The suflTering infant from her breast !
Sunk in the ocean he shall rest !
Hear thou the wretched mother's cries,
Avenging Power ! awake! arise!

By the rank, infected air
That taints those cabins of despair;
By the scourges blacken'd o'er.
And stiff and hard with human gore;
By every groan of deep distress,
By every curse of wretchedness ;
Tlte vices and the crimes that flow
From the hopelessness of woe ;
By every drop of blood bcspilt,

By Afric's wrongs and Europe's guilt,
Awake ! arise ! avenge I

[plains
And thou hast heard ! and o'er their blood-fed
Sent thine avenging hurricanes,
And bade thy storms with whirlwind roar
Dash their proud navies on the shore ;
And where their armies claim d the fight
Wither'd the warrior's might ;
And o'er the unholy host, with baneful breath,
There, Genius, thou hast breathed the gales of Death.

Brislol, 1795.

THE SAILOR,

WHO HAD SERVED IN THE SLAVE TRADE.

In September, 1798, a Dissenting Minister of Bristol discov-
ered a sailor in tlic neigliborliood of that City, groaning and
praying in a cow-house. The circumstance which occa-
sioned his agony of mind is detailed in the annexed ballad,
without the slightest addition or alteration. By presenting
it as a Poem, the story is made more public ; and such stories
ought to he made as public as possible.

It was a Christian minister.

Who, in the month of flowers,
Walk'd forth at eve amid the fields

Near Bristol's ancient towers, —

When, from a lonely out-house breathed.

He heard a voice of woe,
And groans which less might seem from pain,

Than wretchedness, to flow.

Heart-rending groans they were, with words

Of bitterest despair ;
Yet with the holy name of Christ

Pronounced in broken prayer.

The Christian Minister went in;

A Sailor there he sees.
Whose hands were lifted up to Heaven,

And he was on his knees.

Nor did the Sailor, so intent.

His entering footsteps heed.
But now " Our Father " said, and now

His half-forgotten creed ; —

And often on our Savior call'd

With many a bitter groan,
But in such anguish as may spring

From deepest guilt alone.

The miserable man was ask'd

Why he was kneeling there.
And what had been the crime that caused

The anguish of his prayer.

" I have done a cursed thing ! " he cried ;

" It haunts me night and day ;
And I have sought this lonely place

Here undisturb'd to pray.

112

POEMS CONCERNING THE SLAVE TRADE.

Aboard 1 liavo no place for prayer,

So I came here alone,
That 1 might freely kneel and i)ray,

And call on Christ, and groan.

If to the main-mast head I go,

The Wicked One is there ;
From place to place, from rope to rope.

He follows every wliere.

1 shut my eyes — it matters not —

Still, still the samc^ I see, —
And when 1 lie me down at night,

'Tis always day with me !

He follows, follows every where,
And every place is Hell !

0 God — and 1 must go with Him
In endless fire to dwell .-'

He follows, follows every wliere ;

He's still above — below !
Oh, tell me where to fly from him !

Oh, tell me where to go ! "

" But tell thou," quoth the stranger then,
'• What tliis thy crime hath been ;

So haply I may comfort give
To one who grieves for sin."

" Oh cursed, cursed is the deed 1 "

The wretched man replies;
" And niglit, and day, and every where,

'Tis still before my eyes.

1 sail'd on board a Guinea-man,
And to the slave-coast went ; —

Would that the sea had swallow'd me
When 1 was innocent !

And we took in our cargo there,

Three hundred negro slaves,
And we sail'd homeward merrily

Over the ocean-waves.

But some were sulky of the slaves,
And would not touch their meat,

So therefore we were forced by threats
And blows to make them eat.

One woman, sulkier than the rest,

Would still refuse her food, —
O Jesus God ! I hear her cries I

I see her in her blood !

The Captain made me tie her up.

And flog while he stood by ;
And then he cursed me if I stayed

My hand to hear her cry.

She shriek'd, she groan'd, — I could not spare,

For the Captain he stood by ; —
Dear God ! that I might rest one night

From that poor creature's cry !

What woman's child a sight like that

(yould bear to look upon !
And still the Captain would not spare —

But made me still flog on.

She could not be more glad than 1,

When she was taken down :
A blessed minute ! — 'twas the last

That I have ever known

1 did not close my ej-es all night.

Thinking what I had done ;
I heard her groans, and they grew faint

Towards the rising sun.

She groan'd and moan'd, but her voice grew

Fainter at morning tide ;
Fainter and fainter still it came,

Until at noon she died.

They flung her overboard; — poor wretch.

She rested from her pain, —
But when — O Christ! O blessed God! —

Shall I have rest again .'

1 saw the sea close over her ;

Yet she is still in sight ;
I see her twisting every where ;

I hear her day and night.

Go where 1 will, do what I can.

The Wicked One I see :
Dear Christ, have mercy on my soul !

O God, deliver me !

Oh, give me comfort, if you can !

Oh, tell me where to fly !
Oh, tell me if there can be hope

For one so lost as 1 ! "

What said the Minister of Christ .'

He bade him trust in Heaven,
And call on Him for whose dear sake

All sins shall be forgiven.

He told him of that precious blood

Which should his guilt efface ;
Told him that none are lost, but they

Who turn from profi'er'd grace.

He bade him pra)', and knelt with him,
And join'd hiin in his prayers :

And some who read t!ie dreadful talc
Perhaps will aid with theirs.

Westbury, 1798.

VERSES

SPOKEN IN THE TIIE-^TRE AT OXIORD, ITOS tUK
INSTALLATION OF LORD GKEXVILLE.

Grenville, few years have had their course,

since last
Exulting Oxford view'd a spectacle
Like this day's pomp ; and yet to those who

throng'd
These walls, which ccho"d then with Portland's

praise, [spring

What chanrre hath intervened ! The bloom of

POEMS CONCERNING THE SLAVE TRADE.

113

Is fled from many a cheek, wlicre roseate joy

And beauty bloom'd ; the inexorable Grave

Hath claim'd its portion ; and the band of youths,

Wlio then, collected here as in a port,

From whence to launch on life's adventurous sea,

Stood on the beach, ere this have found their lots

Of good or evil. Thus the lapse of years.

Evolving all things in its quiet course.

Hath wrought for them ; and thougli those years

have seen
Kcarful vicissitudes, of wilder change
Than history yet had learnt, or old romance
In wildest mood imagined, yet these too.
Portentous as they seem, not less have risen,
Each of its natural cause the sure effect.
All righteously ordain'd. Lo ! kingdoms wreck'd,
Thrones overturn'd, built up, then swept away
Like fabrics in the summer clouds, dispersed
By the same breath that lieap'd them ; rightful

kings,
Who, from a line of long-drawn ancestry,
Held the transmitted sceptre, to the axe
Bowing the anointed head ; or dragg'd away
To eat the bread of bondage ; or escaped
Beneath the shadow of Britannia's shield, ,
There only safe. Such fate have vicious courts,
Statesmen corrupt, and fear-struck policy,
Upon themselves drawn down ; till Europe, bound
In iron chains, lies bleeding in tlie dust.
Beneath the feet of upstart tyranny :
Only the heroic Spaniard, he alone
Yet unsubdued in these degenerate days,
With desperate virtue, such as in old time
Hallow'd Saguntum and Numantia's name,
Stands up against the oppressor undismay'd.
So may the Almighty bless the noble race.
And crown with happy end their holiest cause '

Deem not these dread events the monstrous birth
Of chance ! And thou, O England, who dost ride
Serene amid the waters of the flood,
Preserving, even like the Ark of old.
Amid the general wreck, thy purer faith,
Domestic loves, and ancient liberty.
Look to thyself, O England I for be sure,
Even to the measure of thine own desert,
The cup of retribution to thy lips
Shall soon or late be dealt! — a thought that well
Might fill the stoutest heart of all thy sons
With awful apprehension. Therefore, they
Who fear the Eternal's justice, bless thy name,
Grenville, because the wrongs of Africa
Cry out no more to draw a curse from Heaven
On England ! — for if still the trooping sliarks
Track by the scent of death the accursed ship
Freighted with human anguish, in her wake
Pursue the chase, crowd round her keel, and dart
Toward the sound contending, when they hear
The frequent carcass, from her guilty deck,
Dash in the opening deep, no longer now
The guilt shall rest on England ; but if yet
Tliere be among her children, hard of heart
And sear'd of conscience, men who set at nought
Her laws and God's own word, upon themselves
Their sin be visited ! — the red-cross flag,
15

Redeem'd from stain so foul, no longer now
Covereth the abomination.

This thy praise,
O Grenville, and while ages roll away
This shall be thy remembrance. Yea, when all
For which the tyrant of these abject times
Hath given his honorable name on earth.
His nights of innocent sleep, his hopes of heaven ;
When all his triumphs and his deeds of blood,
The fretful changes of his feverish pride,
His midnight murders and perfidious plots,
Are but a tale of years so long gone by.
That they who read distrust the hideous truth,
Willing to let a charitable doubt
Abate tlieir horror; Grenville, even then
Thy memory will be fresh among mankind ;
Afric with all her tongues will speak of thee.
With Wilberforce and Clarkson, he whom Heaven,
To be the apostle of this holy work,
Raised up and strengthen'd, and upheld tiirougli

all
His arduous toil. To end the glorious task,
That blessed, that redeeming deed was thine :
Be it thy pride in life, thy thought in death.
Thy praise beyond the tomb. The statesman's fame
Will fade, the conqueror's laurel crown grow sear;
Fame's loudest trump upon the ear of Time
Leaves but a dying echo ; they alone
Are held in everlasting memory,
Whose deeds partake of heaven. Long ages hence
Nations unborn, in cities that shall rise
.\long the palmy coast, will bless thy name;
And Senegal and secret Niger's shore,
And Calabar, no longer startled then
With sounds of murder, will, like Isis now,
Ring with the songs that tell of Grenville's praise.

Kesivick, 1810.

BOTANY-BAY ECLOGUES.

\Vhere a siglit shall shuddering sorrow find,
Sad as the ruins of the human mind Bowles.

ELINOR.

Time, Morning. Scene, The Shore.

Once more to daily toil, once more to wear
The livery of shame, once more to search
With miserable task this savage shore!
O thou, who mountest so triumpliantly
In yonder Heaven, beginning thy career
Of glory, O tiiou blessed Sun ! thy beams
Fall on me with the same benignant light
Here, at the farthest limits of the world,
And blasted as I am with infamy,
As when in better years poor Elinor
Gazed on thy glad uprise with eye undimm'd
By guilt and sorrow, and the opening morn

114

BOTANY-BAY ECLOGUES.

Woke her from quiet sleep to days of peace.
In otlier occupation then 1 trod
The beach at eve ; and tlion, wlien I beheld
The billows as they roll'd before the storm
Burst on the rock and rage, my timid soul
Shrunk at the perils of the boundless deep,
And heaved a sigh for suffering mariners ; —
Ah ! little thinking I myself was doom'd
To tempt tlie perils of the boundless deep,
An outcast, unbeloved and unbewail'd.

Still wilt thou haunt me, Memory ! still present
The fields of England to my exiled eyes,
The joys which once were mine. Even now I see
The lowly, lovely dwelling; even now
Behold the woodbine clasping its white walls.
Where fearlessly the red-breasts chirp'd around
To ask their morning meal : and where at eve
I loved to sit and watch the rook sail by.
And hear his hollow tone, what time he sought
The church-yard elm, that witli its ancient boughs
Full-foliaged, half-conccal'd the house of God;
Tliat holy house, where I so oft have heard
My father's voice explain the wondrous works
Of Heaven to sinful man. Ah! little deem'd
His virtuous bosom, that his shameless child
So soon should spurn the lesson, — sink, the slave
Of Vice and Infamy, — the hireling prey
Of brutal appetite ; — at length worn out
With famine, and the avenging scourge of guilt.
Should share dislionesty, — yet dread to die !

Welcome, ye savage lands, ye barbarous climes,
Where angry England sends her outcast sons ;
I hail your joyless shores ! My weary bark,
Long tempest-tost on Life's inclement sea,
Here hails her haven ; welcomes the drear scene,
The marshy plain, the brier-entangled wood,
And all the perils of a world unknown.
For Elinor has nothing new to fear
From cruel Fortune; all her rankling shafts
Barb'd with disgrace, and venom'd with disease,
Have pierced my bosom, and the dart of death
Has lost its terrors to a wretch like me.

Welcome, ye marshy heaths, ye pathless woods,
Where the rude native rests his wearied frame
Beneath the sheltering shade ; where, when the

storm
Benumbs his naked limbs, he flies to seek
The dripping shelter. Welcome, ye wild plains
Unbroken by the plough, undelvcd by hand
Of patient rustic ; where for lowing herds,
And for the music of the bleating flocks,
Alone is heard the kangaroo's sad note
Deepening in distance. Welcome, wilderness,
Nature's domain ! for here, as yet unknown
The comforts and the crimes of polish'd life,
Nature benignly gives to all enough,
Denies to all a superfluity.
What though the garb of infamy I wear.
Though day by day along the echoing beach
I gather wave-worn shells ; yet day by day
I earn in honesty my frugal food,
And lay me down at night to calm repose ;

No more condemned, the mercenary tool

Of brutal lust, while heaves the indignant heart

Abhorrent, and self-loathed, to fold my arms

Round the rank felon, and for daily bread

To hug contagion to my poison'd IJreast !

On these wild shores the saving hand of Grace

Will probe my secret soul, and cleanse its wounds.

And fit the faithful penitent for Heaven.

Oxford, 1794.

II

HUMPHREY AND WILLIAM.
Time, Noon.

HUMPHREY.

See'st thou not, William, that the scorching sun
By this time half his daily race hath run .'
The savage thrusts his light canoe to shore.
And hurries homeward with his fishy store.
Suppose we leave awhile this stubborn soil.
To e9,t our dinner and to rest from toil.

WILLIAM.

Agreed. Yon tree, whose purple gum bestows
A ready medicine for the sick man's woes.
Forms with its shadowy boughs a cool retreat
To shield us from the noontide's sultry heat.
Ah, Humphrey ! now upon old England's shore
The weary laborer's morning work is o'er.
The woodman there rests from his measured stroke,
Flings down his axe, and sits beneath the oak ;
Savor'd with hunger there he eats his food.
There drinks the cooling streamlet of the wood.
To us no cooling streamlet winds its way,
No joys domestic crown for us the day ;
The felon's name, the outcast's garb we wear,
Toil all the day, and all the night despair.

HUMPHREY.

Aye, William ! laboring up the furrow'd ground,
I used to love the village clock's old sound.
Rejoice to hear my morning toil was done.
And trudge it homeward when the clock went one.
Twas ere I turn'd a soldier and a sinner !
Pshaw ! curse this whining — let us fall to dinner.

WILLIAM.

I too have loved this hour, nor yet forgot
The household comforts of my little cot ;
For at this hour my wife with watchful care
Was wont her humble dainties to prepare ;
The keenest sauce by hunger was supplied.
And my poor children prattled at my side.
Methinks I see the old oak table spread, [bread •
The clean white trencher, and the good brown
The cheese, my daily fare, which Mary made.
For Mary knew full well the housewife's trade ;
The jug of cider, — cider I could make ; —
And then the knives, — I won 'cm at the wake.
Another has them now ! I toiling here
Look backward like a child, and drop a tear.

BOTANY BAY ECLOGUES.

115

HUMPHREV.

I love a dismal story : tell me thine :
Meantime, good Will, I'll listen as I dine :
1 too, my friend, can tell a piteous story
When I turn'd hero how I purchased glory.

WILLIAM.

But, Humphrey, sure thou never canst have

known
The comforts of a little home thine own ;
A home so snug, so cheerful too, as mine ;
'Twas always clean, and we could make it fine.
For there King Charles's Golden Rules were seen.
And there — God bless 'em both! the King and

Queen.
The pewter plates, our garnish'd chimney's grace.
So bright, that in them you might see your face ;
And over all, to frighten thieves, was hung.
Well clean'd, although but seldom used, my gun.
Ah! that damn'd gun ! I took it down one morn, —
A desperate deal of harm they did my corn !
Our testy Squire, too, loved to save the breed.
So covey upon covey ate my seed.
I mark'd the mischievous rogues, and took my aim ;
I fired, tlicy fell, and — up the keeper came.
That cursed morning brought on my undoing;
I went to prison, and my farm to ruin.
Poor Mary ! for her grave the parish paid ;
No tomb-stone tells where her remains are laid !
My children — my poor boys —

HUMPHREY'.

Come ! — grief is dry —
You to your dinner ; — to my story I.
For you, my friend, who happier days have known.
And each calm comfort of a home your own.
This is bad living: I have spent my life
In hardest toil and unavailing strife.
And here, (from forest ambush safe at least,)
To me this scanty pittance seems a feast.
I was a plough-boy once, as free from woes
And blithesome as the lark with whom I rose.
£ach evening at return a meal I found ;
And though my bed was hard, my sleep was sound.
One Whitsuntide, to go to fair I drest.
Like a great bumpkin, in my Sunday's best ;
A primrose posy in my hat I stuck.
And to the revel went to try my luck.
From show to show, from booth to booth I stray.
See, stare, and wonder all the live-long day.
A sergeant to tlie fair recruiting came,
Skill'd in man-catching, to beat up for game ;
Our booth he enter'd, and sat down by me ; —
Methinks even now the very scene I see !
The canvass roof, the hogshead's running store.
The old blind fiddler seated next the door.
The frothy tankard passing to and fro.
And the rude rabble round the puppet-show.
The sergeant eyed me well ; the puncli-bowl comes.
And as we laugh'd and drank, up struck the

drums.
And now he gives a bumper to his wench ;
God save the King! and then, God damn the

French !

Then tells the story of his last campaign,
ilow many wounded and how many slain.
Flags flying, cannons roaring, drums a-beating.
The English marching on, the French retreating —
" Push on — push on, my lads ! they fly before ye ;
March on to riches, happiness, and glory ! ''
At first I wonder'd, by degrees grew bolder,
Tlien cried, " 'Tis a fine thing to be a soldier ! "
"Aye, Iluinphrey !" says the sergeant, — "that's

your name ?
'Tis a fine thing to fight the French for fame !
March to tlie field, — knock out a Mounseer's

brains.
And pick the scoundrel's pocket for your pains.
Come, Humphrey, come ! thou art a lad of spirit;
Rise to a iialbert, as I did, — by merit !
Wouldsl thou believe it .' even I was once
As thou art now, a plough-boy and a dunce ;
But courage raised me to my rank. How now,

boy!

Sliall Hero Humphrey still be Numps the plough-
boy ?
A proper-shaped young fellow ! tall and straight !
Why, thou wert made for glory ! — five feet eight !
The road to riches is the field of fight ! —
Didst ever see a guinea look so bright.'
Why, regimentals, Numps, would give thee grace ;
A hat and feather would become that face ;
The girls would crowd around thee to be kiss'd ! —
Dost love a girl?" — "Odd Zounds!" I cried,

"I'll list!"
So pass'd the night ; anon the mornmg came.
And off I set a volunteer for fame.
'• Back shoulders, turn oul your toes, hold up )'our

head.
Stand easy ! " — so I did — till almost dead.
O how I long'd to tend the plough again.
Trudge up the field, and whistle o'er the plain.
When tired and sore, amid the piteous throno-,
Hungry, and cold, and wet, I linip'd along.
And growing fainter as I pass'd, and colder,
Cursed that ill hour when I became a soldier !
In town I found the hours more gayly pass.
And time fled swiftly with my girl and glass ;
The girls were wondrous kind and wondrous

fair;
They soon transferr'd me to the Doctor's care ;
The Doctor undertook to cure the evil.
And he almost transferr'd me to the Devil.
'Twere tedious to relate the dismal story
Of fighting, fasting, wretcliedness, and glory.
At last discharged, to England's shores I came.
Paid for my wounds with want instead of fame ;
Found my fair friends, and plunder'd as they bade

me ;
They kiss'd me,coax'd me,robb'd me, and betray 'd

me.
Tried and condemn'd. His Majesty transports me ;
And here in peace, I thank him, he supports me.
So ends my dismal and heroic story ;
And Humphrey gets more good from guilt than
glory.

Oxford, 1794.

IIG

BOTANY-BAY ECLOGUES.

III.

JOHN, SAMUEL, AND RICHARD.

Time, Evening.

JOHN.

'Tisacalm, pleasant evening ; the light fades away,

And the sun going down has done watch for the
day.

To my mind we live wondrous well when trans-
ported ;

It is but to work, and we must be supported.

Fill the can, Dick ! Success here to liotany Bay !

RICHARD.

Success, if you will, — but God send me away !

JOHN.

You lubberly landsmen don't know when you're
well!
Hadst tliou known half the hardships of which I

can tell !
The sailor has no place of safety in store ;
From the tempest at sea, to the press-gang onshore !
When Roguery rules all the rest of the earth,
God be thank'd, in this corner I've got a good berth.

SAMUEL.

Talk of hardships ! what these are the sailor
don't know;
'Tis the soldier, my friend, that's acquainted with

woe;
Long journeys, short halting, hard work, and small

pay,

To be popt at like pigeons for sixpence a day ! —
Thank God I'm safe quarter'd at Botany Bay.

JOHN.

Ah ! you know but little : I'll wager a pot
I have suffer'd more evils than fell to your lot.
Come, we'll have it all fairly and properly tried,
Tell story for story, and Dick shall decide.

SAMUEL.

Done.

JOHN.

Done. 'Tis a wager, and I shall be winner;
Thou wilt go without grog, Sam, to-morrow at
dinner.

SAMUEL.

I was trapp'd by the Sergeant's palavering pre-
tences.
He listed me when I was out of my senses ;
So I took leave to-day of all care and all sorrow,
And was drill'd to repentance and reason to-
morrow.

JOHN.

I would be a sailor, and plough the wide ocean.
But was soon sick and sad with the billows' com-
motion ;
So the boatswain he sent me aloft on the mast,
And cursed me, and bade me cry there, — and
hold fast !

SAMUEL.

After marching all day, faint and hungry and

sore, [nToor,

I have lain down at night on the swamps of the

Unshelter'd and forced by fatigue to remain.

All chill'd by the wind and benumb'd by the rain.

JOHN.

I have rode out the storm when the billows beat

high,
And the red gleaming lightnings flash'd through

the dark sky ;
When the tempest of night the black sea overcast.
Wet and weary I labor'd, yet sung to the blast.

SAMUEL.

I have march'd, trumpets sounding, drums beat-
ing, flags flying,

Where the music of war drown'd the shrieks of the
dying ;

When the shots whizz'd around me, all dangers
defied ;

Push'd on when my comrades fell dead at my side ;

Drove the foe from the mouth of the cannon away.

Fought, conquer'd, and bled, all for sixpence a-day.

And I too, friend Samuel, have heard the shots

rattle !
But we seamen rejoice in the play of the battle ;
Though the chain and the grape-shot roll splintering

around.
With the blood of our messmates though slippery

the ground.
The fiercer the fight, still the fiercer we grow ;
We heed not our loss, so we conquer the foe ;
And the hard battle won, if the prize be not sunk.
The Captain gets rich, and the Sailors get drunk.

SAMUEL

God help the poor soldier when backward he goes.
In disgraceful retreat, through a country of foes !
No respite from danger by day or by night.
He is still forced to fly, still o'ertaken to fight ;
Every step that he takes he must battle his way,
He must force his hard meal from the peasant away :
No rest, and no hope, from all succor afar, —
God forgive the poor soldier for going to the war !

JOHN.

But what are these dangers to those 1 have past.
When the dark billows roar'd to the roar of the

blast ;
When we work'd at the pumps, worn with labor

and weak,
And with dread still beheld the increase of the leak .'
Sometimes as we rose on the wave could our sight,
From the rocks of the shore, catch the light-house's

light ;
In vain to the beach to assist us they press ;
We fire faster and faster our guns of distress ;
Still with rage unabating the wind and waves

roar ; —
How the giddy wreck reels, as the billows burst o'er'

liOTANY BAY ECLOGUES,

117

Leap, leap ; for slie yawns, for she sinks in llie wave !
Call on God to preserve — for God only can save !

SAMUF.L

There's an end of all troubles, however, at last !
And when I in the wagon of wounded was cast,
When my wounds with the chilly night-wind

smarted sore,
And 1 thought of the friends I should never see

more.
No hand to relieve, scarce a morsel of bread.
Sick at heart I have envied the peace of the dead.
Left to rot in a jail, till by treaty set free,
Old England's white cliffs with what joy did I see !
I had gain'd enough glory, some wounds, but no

good.
And was turn'd on the public to shift how I could.
When 1 think what Tve suffer'd, and where I am

now,
I curse him who snared me away from the plough.

When 1 was discharged, I went home to my wife,
There in comfort to spend all the rest of my life.
My wife was industrious ; we earn'd what we spent,
And though little we had, were with little content ;
And whenever I listen'd and heard the wind roar,
1 bless'd God for my little snug cabin on shore.
At midnight they seized me, they dragg'd me away,
They wounded me sore when I would not obey.
And because for my country I'd ventured my life,
1 was dragg'd like a thief from my home and my

wife.
Then tlie fair wind of fortune chopt round in my face,
And want at length drove me to guilt and disgrace.
Butall's for the best ; — on the world's wide sea cast,
1 am haven'd in peace in this corner at last.

SAMUEL.

Come, Dick ! we have done — and for judgment
we call.

RICHAKD.

And in faith I can give you no judgment at all.
But tliat as you're now settled, and safe from foul

weather,
You drink up your grog, and be merry together.

Oxford, 1794.

IV.

FREDERIC.

Time, Night. Scene, Tlic Woods.

Where shall I turn me ? whither shall I bend
My weary way .'' thus worn with toil and faint,
How through the thorny mazes of this wood
Attain my distant dwelling? That deep cry
That echoes through the forest, seems to sound
My parting knell : it is the midnight howl
Of hungry monsters prowling for their prey !
Again I O save me — save me, gracious Heaven !
1 am not fit to die !

Thou coward wretch.
Why palpitates thy heart? why shake thy limbs
Beneath their palsied burden ? Is there aught
So lovely in existence ? wouldst thou drain
Even to its dregs the bitter draught of life ?
Stamp'd with the brand of Vice and Infamy,
Why should the felon Frederic shrink from Death.'*

Death 1 Where the magic in that empty name
That chills my inmost heart ? Why at the thought
Starts the cold dew of fear on every limb .'
There are no terrors to surround the Grave,
When the calm Mind collected in itself
Surveys that narrow house : the ghastly train
That haunt the midnight of delirious Guilt
Then vanish : in that home of endless rest
All sorrows cease ! — Would I might slumber there !

Why then this panting of the fearful heart ?
This miser love of life, that dreads to lose
Its cherish'd torment? Shall a man diseased
Yield up his members to the surgeon's knife,
Doubtful of succor, but to rid his frame
Of fleshly anguish ; and the coward wretch,
Whose ulcerated soul can know no help.
Shrink from the best Physician's certain aid ?
Oh, it were better far to lie me down
Here on this cold, damp earth, till some wild beast
Seize on his willing victim.

If to die
Were all, 'twere sweet indeed to rest my head
On the cold clod, and sleep the sleep of Death
But if the Archangel's trump at the last liour
Startle the ear of Death, and wake the soul
To frenzy ? — Dreams of infancy ; fit tales
For garrulous beldames to affrightcn babes !
What if I warr'd upon the world ? the world
Had wrong'd me first: I had endured the ills
Of hard injustice ; all this goodly earth
Was but to me one wide waste wilderness ;
I had no share in Nature's patrimony ;
Blasted were all my morning hopes of youth.
Dark Disappointment followed on my ways,
Care was my bosom inmate, Penury
Gnaw'd at my heart. Eternal One, thou know'st
How that poor heart, even in the bitter hour
Of lewdest revelry has inly yearn'd
For peace.

My Father ! I will call on thee,
Pour to thy mercy-seat my earnest prayer,
And wait thy righteous will, resign'd of soul.
O thought of comfort ! how the afflicted heart.
Tired with the tempest of its passions, rests
On you vi'ith holy hope ! The hollow howl
Of yonder harmless tenant of the woods
Comes with no terror to the sober'd sense.
If I have sinned against mankind, on them
Be that past sin ; they made me what I was.
In these extremest climes Want can no more
Urge me to deeds of darkness, and at length
Here I may rest. What though my hut be poor —
The rains descend not through its humble roof: —
Would I were there again I The night is cold ;
And what if in my wanderings 1 should rouse
The savajre from his thicket !

118

SONNETS.

Hark ! the gun !
And lo, the fire of safety ! I shall reach
My little hut again ! again by toil
Force from the stubborn earth my sustenance,
And quick-ear'd Guilt will never start alarm'd
Amid the well-earn'd meal. This felon's garb —
Will it not shield me from the winds of Heaven ?
And what could purple more ? O strengthen me,
Eternal One, in this serener state !
Cleanse thou mine heart, so Penitence and Faith
Shall heal my soul, and my last days be peace.

Oxford, 1794.

SONNETS.

I.

Go, Valentine, and tell that lovely Maid
Wliom fancy still will portray to my sight,
How here I linger in this sullen shade.
This dreary gloom of dull, monastic night;
Say, that from every joy of life remote
At evening's closing hour I quit tlie throng.
Listening in solitude the ring-dove's note.
Who pours like me her solitary song ;
Say, that her absence calls the sorrowing sigh ;
Say, that of all her charms I love to speak.
In fancy feel the magic of her eye,
in fancy view the smile illume her cheek.
Court the lone hour when silence stills the grove,
And heave the sigh of memory and of love.
1794.

H.
Think, Valentine, as speeding on thy way
Homeward thou hastest light of heart along.
If heavily creep on one little day
The medley crew of travellers among.
Think on thine absent friend ; reflect that here
On life's sad journey comfortless he roves,
Remote from every scene his heart holds dear.
From him he values, and from her he loves.
And when, disgusted with the vain and dull.
Whom chance companions of thy way may doom.
Thy mind, of each domestic comfort full.
Turns to itself and meditates on home.
Ah, think what cares must ache within his breast.
Who loathes the road, yet sees no home of rest.
179k

HI.

Not to thee, Bedford, mournful is the tale
Of days departed. Time in his career
Arraigns not thee that the neglected year
Hath past unheeded onward. To the vale
Of years thou journeyest ; may the future road
Be pleasant as the past ; and on my friend
Friendship and Love, best blessings, still attend.
Till full of days he reach the calm abode
Where Nature slumbers. Lovely is the age

Of virtue : with such reverence we behold
The silver hairs, as some gray oak grown old
That whilome mock'd the rushing tempest's ragcj
Now like a monument of strength decay 'd, [shade.
With rarely-sprinkled leaves casting a trembling
1794.

IV. CoRSTON.

As thus 1 stand beside the murmuring stream,
And watch its current, memory here portrays
Scenes faintly form'd of half- forgotten days.
Like far-off woodlands by the moon's bright beam
Dimly descried, but lovely. I have worn
Amid these haunts the heavy hours away.
When childhood idled through the Sabbath-day;
Risen to my tasks at winter's earliest morn ;
And when the summer twilight darken'd here,
Thinking of home, and all of heart forlorn.
Have sigh'd and shed in secret many a tear.
Dream-like and indistinct those days appear,
As the faint sounds of this low brooklet, borne
Upon the breeze, reach fitfully the ear.
1794.

V. The Evening Rainbow.
Mild arch of promise, on the evening sky
Thou shinest fair with many a lovely ray
Each in the other melting. Much mine eye
Delights to linger on thee ; for the day.
Changeful and many-weather'd, seemed to smile.
Flashing brief splendor through the clouds awhile,
Which deepen'd dark anon and fell in rain ;
But pleasant is it now to pause, and view
Thy various tints of frail and watery hue.
And think the storm shall not return again.
Such is the smile that Piety bestows
On the good man's pale cheek, when he, in peace
Departing gently from a world of woes,
Anticipates the world where sorrows cease.
1794.

VI.
With many a weary step, at length I gain
Thy summit, Lansdown ; and the cool breeze plays
Gratefully round my brow, as hence I gaze
Back on the fair expanse of yonder plain.
'Twas a long way and tedious ; to the eye
Though fair the extended vale, and fair to view
The autumnal leaves of many a faded hue,
That eddy in the wild gust moaning by,
Even so it fared with life : in discontent
Restless through Fortune's mingled scenes I went.
Yet wept to think they would return no more.
But cease, fond heart, in such sad thoughts to roam j
For surely thou ere long shalt reach thy home ;
And pleasant is the way that lies before.
1794.

vn.

Fair is the rising morn when o'er the sky
The orient sun expands his roseate ray,

SONNETS.

119

And lovely to the musing poet's eye
Fades the soft radiance of departing day ;
But fairer is the smile of one we love,
Than all the scenes in Nature's ample sway,
And sweeter than the music of the grove,
The voice that bids us welcome. Such delight,
Edith ! is mine, escaping to thy siglit
From the cold converse of the indifferent throng:
Too swiftly then toward the silent night.
Ye hours of happiness, ye speed along,
Whilst I, from all the world's dull cares apart,
Pour out the feelings of my burden'd heart.
1794.

VIII.
How darkly o er yon far-olF mountain frowns
The gather'd tempest . from that lurid cloud
The deep- voiced thunders roll, awful and loud,
Though distant ; while upon the misty downs
Fast falls in shadowy streaks the pelting rain.
I never saw so terrible a storm !
Perhaps some way-worn traveller in vain
Wraps his thin raiment round his shivering form,
Cold even as hope within him. I the while
Pause here in sadness, though the sun-beams smile
Cheerily round me. Ah ! that thus my lot
Might be with Peace and Solitude assign'd,
Where I might from some little quiet cot
Sigh for the crimes and miseries of mankind.

IX.

0 THOU sweet Lark, who, in the heaven so high
Twinkling thy wings, dost sing so joyfully,

1 watch thee soaring with a deep delight;
And when at last I turn mine aching eye
That lags below thee in the Infinite,
Still in my heart receive thy melody.

O thou sweet Lark, tjiat I had wings like thee !
Not for the joy it were in yon blue light
Upward to mount, and from my heavenly height
Gaze on the creeping multitude below ;
But that I soon would wing my eager flight
To that loved home where Fancy even now
Hath fled, and Hope looks onward through a tear.
Counting the weary hours tiiat hold her here.
1798.

X.
Thou llngerest. Spring I still wintry is the scene;
The fields their dead and sapless russet wear ;
Scarce doth the glossy celandine appear
Starring the sunny bank, or early green
The elder yet its clrchng tufts put fortli.
The sparrow tenants still the eaves-built nest
Where we should see our martin's snowy breast
Oft darting out. The blasts from the bleak north.
And from the keener east, still frequent blow.
Sweet Spring, thou llngerest; and it should be so, —
Late let the fields and gardens blossom out !
Like man when most with smiles thy face is drcst.

'Tis to deceive, and he who knows ye best,
When most ye promise, ever most must doubt.
Westbury, 1799.

XI.

Beware a speedy friend, tlie Arabian said,
And wisely was it he advised distrust :
The flower that blossoms earliest fades the first.
Look at yon Oak that lifts its stately head,
And dallies witli the autumnal storm, whose rage
Tempests the great sea-waves ; slowly it rose,
Slowly its strength increased through many an age,
And timidly did its light leaves disclose,
As doubtful of the spring, their palest green.
They to the summer cautiously expand,
And by the warmer sun and season bland
Matured, their foliage In the grove is seen.
When the bare forest by tlie wintry blast
Is swept, still lingering on the boughs the last.
1793.

XII. To A Goose.
If thou didst feed on western plains of yore ;
Or waddle wide with flat and flabby feet
Over some Cambrian mountain's plashy moor ;
Or find in farmer's yard a safe retreat
From gypsy thieves, and foxes sly and fleet ;
If thy gray quills, by lawyer guided, trace
Deeds big with ruin to some wretched race.
Or love-sick poet's sonnet, sad and sweet.
Wailing the rigor of his lady fair ;
Or if, the drudge of housemaid's dally toil.
Cobwebs and dust thy pinions wliite besoil,
Departed Goose ! I neither know nor care.
But this I know, that we pronounced thee fine,
Season'd with sage and onions, and port wine.
London, 1798.

xin.

I MARVEL not, O Sun ! that unto thee
In adoration man should bow the knee,
And pour his prayers of mingled awe and love ;
For like a God thou art, and on thy way
Of glory sheddest, with benignant ray.
Beauty, and life, and joyance from above.
No longer let these mists thy radiance shroud,
These cold, raw mists, that chill the comfortless day.
But slied thy splendor through the opening cloud.
And clieer the earth once more. The languid flowers
Lie scentless, beaten down with heavy rain:
Earth asks thy presence, saturate with showers ;
O Lord of Llglit! put forth tJiy beams again,
For damp and cheerless are the gloomy hours.
Westtiii-y, 1793.

XIV.

Fair be thy fortunes in tlie distant land,
Companion of my earlier years and friend !
Go to the Eastern world, and may the hand
Of Heaven its blessing on thy labor send.

120

SONNETS.

And may I, if we ever more should meet,
See thee with affluence to thy native shore
Return'd ; — 1 need not pray that 1 may greet
The same untainted goodness as before.
Long years must intervene before that day ;
And^what the changes Heaven to each may send,
It boots not now to bode : O early friend !
Assured, no distance e'er can wear away
Esteem long rooted, and no change remove
The dear remembrance of the friend we love.

1798.

XV.

A 7VRINKLED, crabbed man they picture thee,
Old Winter, with a rugged beard as gray
As the long moss upon the apple-tree ;
Blue-lipt, an ice-drop at thy sharp, blue nose,
Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way.
Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.
They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt

hearth,
Old Winter ! seated in thy great arm'd chair,
Watching the children at their Christmas mirth;
Or circled by them as thy lips declare
Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire.
Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night.
Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire.
Or taste the old October brown and bright.

Westburij, 1799.

XVI.

PoRLOCK, thy verdant vale so fair to sight,

Thy lofty hills which fern and furze embrown.

The waters that roll musically down

Tliy woody glens, the traveller with delight

Recalls to memory, and the channel gray

Circling its surges in thy level bay.

Porlock, I also shall forget thee not,

Here by the unwelcome summer rain confined ;

But often shall hereafter call to mind

How here, a patient prisoner, 'twas my lot

To wear the lonely, lingering close of day,

Making my Sonnet by the alehouse fire.

Whilst Idleness and Solitude inspire

Dull rhymes to pass the duller hours away.

August 9, 1799.

XVII.

Stately yon vessel sails adown the tide.
To some far distant land adventurous bound ;
The sailors' busy cries from side to side,
Pealing among the echoing rocks, resound :
A patient, thoughtless, much-enduring band.
Joyful they enter on their ocean way.
With shouts exulting leave their native land,
And know no care beyond the present day.
But is there no poor mourner left behmd.

Who sorrows for a child or husband there ?
Who at the howling of the midnight wind
Will wake and tremble in her boding prayer ?
So may her voice be heard, and Heaven be kind !
Go, gallant Ship, and be thy fortune fair !
Westbury, 1799.

XVIIl.
O God ! have mercy in this dreadful hour
On the poor mariner ! in comfort here
Safe shelter'd as I am, I almost fear
The blast that rages with resistless power.
What were it now to toss upon the waves.
The madden'd waves, and know no succor near,
The howling of the storm alone to hear.
And the wild sea that to the tempest raves ;
To gaze amid the horrors of the night.
And only see the billow's gleaming light ;
Then in the dread of death to think of her
Who, as she listens sleepless to the gale.
Puts up a silent prayer and waxes pale .' —
O God ! have mercy on the mariner !

Westbury, 1799.

XIX.

She comes majestic with her swelling sails,
The gallant Ship ; along her watery way
Homeward she drives before the favoring gales ;
Now flirting at their length the streamers play,
And now they ripple with the ruffling breeze.
Hark to the sailors' shouts ! the rocks rebound.
Thundering in echoes to the joyful sound.
Long have they voyaged o'er the distant seas ;
And what a heart-delight they feel at last.
So many toils, so many dangers past.
To view the port desired, he only knows
Who on the stormy deep for many a day
Hath tost, aweary of his watery way,
And watch 'd, all anxious, every wind that blows.

Westbury, 1799.

XX.

Farewell my home, my home no longer now,
Witness of many a calm and happy day ;
And thou, fair eminence, upon whose brow
Dwells the last sunshine of the evening ray,
Farewell ! These eyes no longer shall pursue
The western sun beyond the farthest height.
When slowly he forsakes the fields of light.
No more the freshness of tlie falling dew,
Cool and delightful, here shall bathe my head.
As from this western window dear, I lean.
Listening, the while I watch the placid scene.
The martins twittering underneath the shed.
Farewell, dear home! where many a day has past
In joys whose loved remembrance long shall last

Westbury, 1799.

SA]PIP3Er®o

Hark! h.a\v

p below

Roai-s round theru^gtu iJru-,.-,._t^-i ifitcall'd
lis lon^-relucLanl victinil 1 will coTne !-
One leap, and all is over!

Jtt'fwdraniaj-. i'.121.

MONODRAMAS.

123

To-morrow ; but with honest pride I say,
That if the truest and the purest love
Deserved requital, such was ever mine.
How often reeking from the adulterous bed
Have I received him ! and with no complaint.
Neglect and insult, cruelty and scorn,
Long, long did I endure, and long curb down
The indignant nature.

Tell your countrymen,
Scotchmen, what I have spoken ! Say to them
Ye saw the Queen of Scotland lift the dagger
Red from her husband's heart; that in her own
She plunged it. Slabs herself.

Tell them also, that she felt
No guilty fear in death.

Westbury, 1793.

LUCRETIA.

Scene. The House of CoUatine.

Welcome, my father! good Valerius,
Welcome ! and thou too, Brutus ! ye were both
My wedding guests, and fitly ye are come.
My husband — Collatine — alas! no more
Lucretia's husband, for thou shalt not clasp
Pollution to thy bosom, — hear mo on !
Fc- ' ivist *el! *hee all.

I sat at eve
Spinning amid my maidens as I wont,
When from the camp at Ardea Sextus came.
Curb down thy swelling feelings, Collatine !
1 little liked the man ! yet, for he came
From Ardea, for he brought me news of thee,
I gladly gave him welcome ; gladly listen 'd, —
Thou canst not tell how gladly — to his tales
Of battles, and the long and perilous siege ;
And when I laid me down at night to sleep,
'Twas with a lighten'd heart, — I knew thee safe ;
My visions were of thee.

Nay, hear me out I
And be thou wise in vengeance, so thy wife
Not vainly shall liave sufFer'd. I have wrought
My soul up to the business of this hour.
That it may stir your noble spirits, and prompt
Such glorious deeds that ages yet unborn
Shall bless my fate. At midnight I awoke ;
The Tarquin was beside me ! O my husband.
Where wert thou then ! gone was my rebel

strength —
All power of utterance gone ! astonish'd, stunn'd,
1 saw the coward ruffian, heard him urge
His wicked suit, and bid me tamely yield, —
Yield to dishonor. When he proffer'd death, —
Oh, I had leap'd to meet themerciful sword I
But that with most accursed vows he vow'd,
That he would lay a dead slave by my side,
Murdering my spotless honor. — Collatine,
From what an anguish have I rescued thee I
And thou, my father, wretched as thou art.
Thou miserable, childless, poor old man, —
Think, father, what that agony had been !
Now thou mayst sorrow for me, thou mayst bless
The memory of thy poor, polluted child.

Look if it have not kindled Brutus' eye :
Mysterious man ! at last I know thee now ;
I see thy dawning glories ! — to the grave
Not unrevenged Lucretia shall descend ;
Not always shall her wretched country wear
The Tarquin's yoke ! Ye will deliver Rome,
And 1 have comfort in this dreadful hour.

Thinkest thou, my husband, that I dreaded
death .' *

O Collatine ! the weapon that had gored
My bosom had been ease, been happiness, —
Elysium, to the hell of his hot grasp.
Judge if Lucretia could have fear'd to die I

Stabs herself.
Bristol, 1799.

LA CABA.

This monodrania was written sovoral years before the author
liad any intention of treating at greater lengtli the jjortion
of Spanish history to which it relates. It is founded upon
the following passage in the Historia Vertladcra del Rnj Dun
Rodrigo, which Miguel de I^una translated from the Arahic.
Avieiidose despcdido en la Ciudad de Cordoba el Conde
Don Julian de aqucllos Octicrales, rccogio toda su grate, dcu-
dos y criados ; y porque svs ticrras cstavun tan perdidas y
maltratada^, sefea d un Uigar pequeno, que cstdfabricado en
la ribcra del mar Mediterraneo, en la provinr.ia que Human
Vandalucia, dla qual iiombraron los Christiunos en sulengua
Vdlaviciosa. Y uviendo llegudo d ella, did orden de ernbiar
por su muger, y I'ija, que cstacan detenidns en aquellas partes
de .Africa, en una Ciudad que estd en la ribcra del mar, la
qual se llama Taiijer, para desde nlli nguardar el succsso
de la conquitita de EspaTia en que aria de parar : las qualcs
llegadas en aquclla Villa, el Covde D. Julian las rccibio con
mucho content!}, porque tenia bien scntida su larga auscncia.
y aciendo descansado, dcsde alii el Conde dava orden con
mucha diUgcncia parapoblar yrcstaurar sus ticrras, para ir
d vivir d ellas. Su hija estaim muy triste y ofiigida ; y por
mucho que sii padre y madre la regalaran, nunca la podian
contcntar, ni alcgrar. Imuginara la grande perdida de Espana,
y la grande destruicion de los Cliristianos, con tautas mucrtes,
y cautiverios, robadas sus liazicndas, y que dla liuviessc sido
causa principal, cabcza, y ocasiun de aquclla pcrdiciun ; y sobre
todo cllo le crccian mas sus pcsadumbres en verse dcshonrada,
y sin esperanza de tener estado, segun clla dcscava. Con esta
imaginacion, enganada del demonio, dclirmind cntrcsi de
morir descspcrada ; y un dia sc siibid d una torre, cerrando la
pucrta dclla por dedcntrn, porque nofuesse estorvada de aquel
hecho que qucria hazcr ; y dizo d una ama suya, que le llamasse
d su padre y madre, que les queria dciir un poco. Y sicndo
vcnidos, desde lo alto dc aquclla torre les hizo un razonamirniO
muy lastimoso, diziendoles alfin del, qucmvgcr tan desdichada
como ella era, y tan desvrnturada, no merrcia vivir en ci
mundo con tanla dishonra, mayormente uviendo sido causa de
tunto maly destruicion. Yluego les diio, Pudrrs, cnmemoria
de mi desdicha, de aqui adelante no se llame esta Ciudad, Villa,
viciosa, sino Malaca ; Oy se acaba en ella la vias mala muger
que huvo en d mundo. Y acahadas cstas palabras, sin 7nas
Qir d sus padres, ni d nadie de los que estavan presentes, por
miichos rucgos que la hizieron, y amonestacioncs que no se
echasse abaio, se dezd cacr en cl suelo ; y llevada medio mucrta,
vivid como Ires dias, y hiego murio. — Fue causa cste desastre
y desrspcracion de mucho escandalo, y notable mcmoria, entrc
los Moro.1 y Cliristianos ; y dcsde alle adelante se llamo aquella
Ciudad Malaga corruptamcnte por los Christianas ; y de los
Arabesfuc llamada Malaca, en mcmoria dc aquellas palabras
que dizo quando se echd de la torre, no se llame Villaviciosa,
.lino Malaca, porque ca, en lenguaje Ktiiaiiol quiere deiir por-
que ; y porque dizo, ca, oy se acaba en ella la mas mala muger
que huvo en el mundo, .le compuso este nombre de Mala y ca. —
Cap. xviii. pp. 81, 83.

124

AMATORY POEMS OF ABEL SHU FFLEBOTT OM,

Bleda, who has incorporated Miguel de Luna's etory in his
Crunica de los Moras de Espana,pp 193, 194, has the fol-
lowing curious passage concerning La Caba.

Fae la hcrinosxtra desta daina no menos dahosa a Espana,
que la de Elena d Troija. IJamaronla los Moras por mal
nombrc La Caca; y nota el Padre Fray Estavan de Salazar,
Cartuxo, en las duicursos doctissimos sabre cl Credo, que esto
no fae sin mystcrio : jmrque cl nombre de nuestra primera
madre en el Hebreo no se pranuncia E':a, sino Cavah .- de
suerte que tuvieran un mcsmu nombre dos mugercs que faeron
ruyna de los hombrcs, la una en todo el muiulo, y la otra en
Espana. — Bleda, p. 14G. *

Morales supposes that tlie Gate at Malaga derived its name
not from the death of La Caba, but from her having passed
through it on her way to Africa.

En Malaga he vlsto la pucrta en cl muro, que llaman de La
Cava, y diccn le qucdd aquel nombre, habicndo salido esta vez
por ella embarcarse. Y la gran desvcntura que luego sucedid,
dez6 Iristenicnte notable aquel lugar. — BIorales, 1. xii. cap.
Ixvii. § 4.

The very different view which I have taken of this subject
when treating it upon a great scale, renders it proper to sub-
stitute for Julian, in this earlier production, the name of Ilian,
for which the Corunica de Espana affords authority, and to
call his daughter as she is named in that spirited Ode by P.
Luis de Leon, of which a good translation may be found in
Russell's poems.

Father ! Count Ulan ! here — what here I say, —
Aloft — look up 1 — ay, father, here I stand,
Safe of my purpose now ! The way is barr'd ; —
Thou need'st not hasten hither ! — Ho ! Count

Ulan,
1 tell thee I have barr'd the battlements !
I tell thee that no human power can curb
A desperate will. The poison and the knife —
These thou couldst wrest from me ; but here I

stand
Beyond thy thrall — free mistress of myself.
Though thou hadst wings, thou couldst not over-
take
My purpose. 1 command my destiny.
Would I stand dallying on Death's threshold here.
If it were possible that hand of man
Could pluck me back ?

Why didst thou bring me here
To set my foot, reluctant as I was,
On this most injured and unhappy land .'
Yonder in Afric — on a foreign shore,
1 might have linger'd out my wretched life —
I might have found some distant lurking place,
Where my accursed tale was never known ;
Where Gothic speech would never reach my ear, —
Where among savages I might have fled
The leprous curse of infamy ! But here —
In Spain, — in my own country ; — night and morn
Where all good people curse me in their prayers ;
Where every Moorish accent that I hear
Doth tell me of my country's overthrow,
Doth stab me like a dagger to the soul ;

Here here — in desolated Spain, whose fields

Yet reek to Heaven with blood, — whose slaugh-

ter'd sons
Lie rotting in the open light of day,
My victims ; — said 1, mine ? Nay — Nay, Count

Ulan,
They are thy victims ! at the throne of God
Their spirits call for vengeance on thy head ;
Their blood is on thy soul, — even I, myself.

I am thy victim too, — and this death more
Must yet be placed in Hell to thy account.

O my dear country ! O my mother Spain !
My cradle and my grave ! — for thou art dear;
And nursed to thy undoing as I was.
Still, still I am thy child — and love thee still;
I shall be written in thy chronicles
The veriest wretch that ever yet betray'd
Her native land ! From sire to son my name
Will be transmitted down for infamy I —
Never again will mother call her child
La Caba, — an Iscariot curse will lie
Upon the name, and children in their songs
Will teach the rocks and hills to echo with it
Strumpet and traitoress !

This is thy work, father
Nay, tell me not my shame is wash'd away —
That all this ruin and this misery
Is vengeance for my wrongs. I ask'd not this, —
I call'd for open, manly, Gothic vengeance.
Thou wert a vassal, and thy villain lord
Most falsely and most foully broke his faith ;
Thou wert a father, and the lustful king
By force abused thy child ! — Thou hadst a sword ;
Shame on thee to call in the cimeter
To do thy work! Thou wert a Goth — a Chris-
tian—
Son of an old and honorable house, —
It was my boast, my proudest happiness,
To think I was the daughter of Count Ulan.
Fool that I am to call this African
By that good name ! O do not spread thy hands
To me ! — and put not on that father's look !
Moor ! turbaned misbeliever ! renegade !
Circumcised traitor ! Thou Count Illan, Thou ! —
Thou my dear father? — cover me, O Earth.'*
Hell, hide me from the knowledge !

Bristol, 1802.

THE AMATORY POEMS

ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM.

SONNET I.

DELIA AT PLAY.

She held a Cup mid Ball of ivory white.
Less white the ivory than her snoicy hand !
Enrapt, I watch' d her from my secret stand,
As now, intent, in innocent delight.
Her taper fingers twirl'd the giddy ball.
Now tost it, following still with eagle sight.
Now on the pointed end infixed its fall.
Marking her sport I mused, and musing sigh'd.
Methought the ball she play'd with was my

HEART ;

(Alas ! that sport like that should be her pride !)
And the keen point which steadfast still she eyed
Wherewith to pierce it, that was Cupid's dart;
Shall I not then the cruel Fair condemn
Who on that dart impales my bosom's gem '

LOVE ELEGIES.

125

SONNET II.

TO A PAINTER ATTEMPTING DELIA's PORTRAIT.

Rash Painter! canst thou give the orb of dav

In all its noontide glory ? or portray

Tlie DIAMOND, that athwart the tapcr'd hall

Flings the rich flashes of its dazzling light ?

Even if thine art could boast such -magic viight^

Yet if it strove to paint vuj Angel's eye,

Here it perforce must fail. Cease ! lest I call

Heaven'' s vengeance on thy sin. Must thou be told

The CRIME it is to paint divinity.'

Rash Painter ! should the world her charms behold,

Dim and defiled, as there they needs must be,

They to their old idolatry would fall,

And bend before her form the pagan knee,

Fairer than Venus, daughter of the sea.

SONNET III.

HE PROVES the EXISTENCE OF A SOUL FROM
ins LOVE FOR DELIA.

Some have denied a soul ! they never loved.
Far from my Delia now by fate removed,
At home, abroad, I viewed her every where ;
Her only in the flood of noon I sec.
My Goadess Maid, my omnipresent fair,
For LOVE annihilates the world to me!
And when the weary Sol around his bed
Closes the sable curtains of the night,
Sun of my slumbers, on my dazzled sight
She shines confest. When everij sound is dead.
The SPIRIT OF HER VOICE comes then to roll
The surge of music o'er my wavy brain.
Far, far from her my Body drags its chain,
But sure with Delia / exist a soul '

SONNET IV.

THE POET EXPRESSES HIS FEELINGS RESPECTING
A PORTRAIT IN DELIa's PARLOR.

I WOULD I were that portly Gentleman
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane.
Who hangs in Delia's parlor ! For whene'er
From book or needlework her looks arise.
On him converge the sun-beams of her eyes,
And he unhlamed may gaze upon my fair.
And oft MY FAIR h\s favor d form surveys.

0 HAPPY PICTURE ! still on her to gaze ;

1 envy him ! and jealous fear alarms.

Lest the strong glance of those divinest charms
Warm him to life, as in the ancient days,
When marble melted in Pygmalion's arms.
I would I were that portly Gentleman
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane.

LOVE ELEGIES.

ELEGY I.

THE POET RELATES HOW HE OBTAINED DELIA S
POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF.

'Tis mine ! what accents can my joy declare .'
Blest be the pressure of the thronging routl

Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair.

That left the tempting corner hanging out !

I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels.
After long travel to some distant shrine,

When at the relic of his saint he kneels.

For Delia's pocket-handkerchief is mine.

When first with filching fingers I drew near,
Keen hope shot tremulous through every vem

And when the finish' d deed removed my fear.
Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain

What though the Eighth Commandment rose to
mind.

It only served a moment's qualm to move ;
For thefts like this it could not be design'd ; [love !

T?ie Eighth Commandment was not made for

Here when she took the macaroons from me,
She wiped her mouth to clean the crumbs so sweet !

Dear napkin ! yes, slie wiped her lips in thee !
Lips sweeter than the macaroons she eat.

And when she took that pinch of Mocabaw,
That made my Love so delicately sneeze.

Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw,

And thou art doubly dear for things like these.

No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er.
Sweet pocket-handkerchief! thy worth pro-
fane ;

For thou hast touch'd the rubies of my fair,
And I will kiss thee o'er and o'er asain.

ELEG»Y II.

THE POET INVOKES THE SPIRITS OF THE ELEMENTS
TO APPROACH DELIA. — HE DESCRIBES HER
SINGING.

Ye Sylphs, who banquet on my Delia's blush.
Who on her locks of floating gold repose,

Dip in her check your gossamery brush.

And with its bloom of beauty tinge the rose.

Hover around her lips on rainboic wing,

Load from her honey'd breath your ricwZcjs feet.

Bear thence a richer fragrance for the Spring,
And make the lily and the violet sweet.

126

LOVE ELEGIES,

Ye Gnomes, whose toil through many a dateless year
Its nurture to the infant gem supplies,

From central caverns bring your diamonds here,
To ripen in the sun of Delia's eves.

And ye who bathe in Etna's lava springs,
Spirits of fire I to see my love advance ;

Fly, Salamanders, on Asbestos' wings,
To wanton in my DeYm's fiery glance.

She weeps, she weeps ! her eye with anguish swells,
Some tale of sorrow melts my feeling girl !

Nymphs ! catch the tears, and in your lucid shells
Enclose them, embryos of the orient pearl.

She sings ! the Nightingale with envy hears.
The Cherub listens from his starry throne.

And motionless are stopp'd the attentive Spheres,
To hear more heavenly music than their own.

Cease, Delia, cease ! for all the angel throng.
Hearkening to thee, let sleep their golden wires !

Cease, Delia, cease that too surpassing song.
Lest, stung to envy, they should break their lyres.

Cease, ere my senses are to madness driven
By the strong joy ! Cease, Delia, lest my soul,

Enrapt, already think itself in heaven,
Jlnd burst the feeble Bodifs frail control.

ELEGY III.

the poet expatiates on the beauty of Delia's
hair.

The comb between whose ivory teeth she strains
The straitening curls of gold so beamy bright,

Not spotless merely from the touch remains.
But issues forth more pure, more milky white.

The rose-pomatum that the Friseur spreads
Sometimes with honor'd fingers for my fair

No added perfume on her tresses sheds.

But borrows sweetness from her sweeter hair.

Happy the Friseur who in Delia's hair

With licensed fingers uncontroll'd may rove !

And happy in his death the dancing bear.
Who died to make pomatum for my love.

Oh could I hope that e'er my favor'd lays

Might curl those lovely loc/cs with conscious pride.

Nor Hammond, nor the Mantuan Shepherd's
praise,
I'd envy then, nor wish reward beside.

Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine,
The bow that in my breast impcll'd his dart ;

From you, sweet locks ! he wove the subtile line
Wherewith the urchin angled for my heart.

Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads

That from the silk-worm, self-interr'd, proceed ;

Fine as the gleamy Gossamer that spreads
Its filmy web-work o'er the tangled mead.

Yet with these tresses Cupid's power elate
My captive heart has handcuff' d in a chain.

Strong as the cables of some huge first-rate.
That bears Britannia's thunders o'er the
main.

The Sylphs that round her radiant locks repair,
Inflowing lustre bathe their brightening wings ;

And Elfin Minstrels with assiduous care
The ringlets rob for faery fiddle-strings.

ELEGY IV.

the poet relates how he stole a lock of
Delia's hair, and her anger.

Oh ! be the day accurst that gave me birth !

Ye Seas, to swallow me in kindness rise !
Fall on me, Mountains I and thou merciful Earth,

Open, and hide me from my Delia's eyes !

Let universal Chaos now return.

Now let the central fires their prison burst.

And earth, and heaven, and air, and ocean
burn —
For Delia FROWNS — she frowns, and /am C7ir5f.'

Oh ! I could dare the fury of the fight,

Where hostile millions sought my single life ;

Would storm volcano batteries with delight,
And grapple with grim death in glorious strife.

Oh ! 1 could brave the bolts of angry Jove,

When ceaseless lightnings fire the midnight skies :

What is his wrath to that of her I love .'

What is his lightning to my Delia's eyes.'

Go, fatal lock I I cast thee to the wind ;

Ye serpent curls, ye poison-tendrils, go !
Would I could tear thy memory from my mind,

Accursed lock, — thou cause of all niy woe !

Seize the curst curls, ye Furies, as they fly !

Demons of Darkness, guard the infernal roll.
That thence your cruel vengeance, when I die.

May knit the knots of torture /or my soul.

Last night, — Oh hear me. Heaven, and grant my
prayer !

The book of fate before thy suppliant lay,
And let me from its ample records tear

Only the single page of yesterday!

Or let me meet old Time upon his flight,
And I will stop him on his restless way ;

Omnipotent in Love's resistless might,

Til force him back the road of yesterday.

Last night, as o'er the page of Love's despair,
My Delia bent deliciously to grieve,

LYRIC POEMS,

127

1 stood a treacherous loiterer by her chair,
And drew tlie fatal scissous from my sleeve :

And would that at that instant o'er my thread
The SHEARS OK Atkoi'os had opon'd then;

And when I reft the lock fi-oni Delia's head,
Had cut me sudden from the sons of men !

She heard the scissors that fair lock divide.

And whilst my heart with transport panted big,

She cast a fury frown on me, and cried,
" You stupid Puppy, — you have spoil'dmy Wig ! "

Westbury, 1799.

LYRIC POEMS

TO HORROR.

Tiv yap irora uaojiai

^Epxoiitidv vcKVuiii dvd t' ripia, Kai jiCXav alpa.

Theocritus

Dark Horror ! hear my call !
Stern Genius, hear from thy retreat
On some old sepulchre's moss-canker'd seat.
Beneath the Abbey's ivied wall
That trembles o'er its shade ;
Where wrapt in midnight gloom, alone.
Thou lovest to lie and hear
The roar of waters near,
And listen to the deep, dull groan
Of some perturbed sprite.
Borne fitful on the heavy gales of night.

Or whether o'er some wide waste hill
Thou see'st the traveller stray,

Bewilder'd on his lonely way.
When, loud, and keen, and chill.
The evening winds of winter blow,

Drifting deep the dismal snow.

Or if thou followest now on Greenland's shore.

With all thy terrors, on the lonely way

Of some wreck'd mariner, where to the roar

Of herded bears, the floating ice-hills round

Return their echoing sound,

And by the dim, drear Boreal light

Givest half his dangers to the wretch's sight.

Or if thv fury form.
When o'er the midnight deep
The dark-wing'd tempests sweep,
Beholds from some high cliff the increasing storm,
Watching with strange delight,
As the black billows to the thunder rave,
When by tlie lightning's light
Thou see'st the tall ship sink beneath the wave.

Bear me in spirit where the held of fight
Scatters contagion on the tainted gale,
When, to the Moon's faint beam,
On many a carcass shine the dews of night.

And a dead silence stills the vale, [screarn.
Save when at times is heard the glutted Raven's

Where some wreck'd army from the Conqueror's
Speed their disastrous flight, [might

With thee, fierce Genius ! let me trace their way,
And hear at times the deep heart-groan
Of some poor suff'erer left to die alone ;
And we will pause, where, on tlie wild.
The mother to her breast.
On the heap'd snows reclining, clasps her child,
Not to be pitied now, for both are now at rest.

Black Horror ! speed we to the bed of Death,
Where one who wide and far
Hath sent abroad the myriad plagues of war
Struggles with his last breath ;
Then to his wildly-starting eyes
The spectres of the slaughter'd rise ;
Then on his frenzied ear
Their calls for vengeance and the Demons' yell
In one heart-maddening chorus swell ;
Cold on his brow convulsing stands the dew,
And night eternal darkens on his view.

Horror ! I call thee yet once more !

Bear me to that accursed shore.

Where on the stake the Negro writhes.

Assume thy sacred terrors then ! dispense
The gales of Pestilence !
Arouse the oppress'd ; teach them to know their

power ;
Lead them to vengeance ! and in that dread hour
When ruin rages wide,
I will behold and smile by Mercy's side.

Bristol, 1791.

TO CONTEMPLATION.

Kai naya; (j>t\ioini tov iyyvOcv rjxov aKOveiv,
"A TcpiTst ipoipioiixa tov aypiKOv, oixi rapdaati.

SIoscHUs.

Faint gleams the evening radiance through the sky.
The sober twilight dimly darkens round ;
In short quick circles the shrill bat flits by,
And the slow vapor curls along the ground.

Now the pleased eye from yon lone cottage sees
On the green mead the smoke long-shadowing play;
The Red-breast on the blossom'd spray
Warbles wild her latest lay ;
And lo ! the Rooks to yon high-tufled trees
Wing in long files vociferous their way.
Calm Contemplation, 'tis thy favorite hour'
Come, tranquillizing Power !

128

LYRIC POEMS.

I view thee on the cahny shore
When Ocean stills his waves to rest ;
Or when slow-moving on the surges hoar
Meet with deep, hollow roar,
And whiten o'er his breast ;
And when the Moon with softer radiance gleams.
And lovelier heave tlie billows in her beams.

When the low gales of evening moan along,
1 love with thee to feel the calm, cool breeze.

And roam the pathless forest wilds among,
Listening the mellow murmur of the trees

Full-foliaged, as they wave their heads on high.

And to the winds respond in symphony.

Or lead me where, amid the tranquil vale.
The broken streamlet J3ows in silver light ;
And I will linger where the gale
O'er the bank of violets sighs.
Listening to hear its soften'd sounds arise,
And hearken the dull beetle's drowsy flight,

And watch the tube-eyed snail
Creep o'er his long, moon-glittering trail,
And mark where radiant tlirough the night
Shines in the grass-green hedge tlie glow-vv^orm's
living light.

Thee, meekest Power ! I love to meet.
As oft with solitary pace
The ruin'd Abbey's hallowed rounds I trace,
And listen to the echoings of my feet.
Or on some half-demolish'd tomb,
Whose warning texts anticipate my doom,

Mark the clear orb of night
Cast through the ivied arch a broken light.

Nor will I not in some more gloomy hour
Invoke with fearless awe thine holier power.
Wandering beneath the sacred pile
When the blast moans along the darksome aisle,
And clattering patters all around
The midnight shower with dreary sound.

But sweeter 'tis to wander wild.
By melancholy dreams beguiled.
While the summer moon's pale ray
Faintly guides me on my way
To some lone, romantic glen.
Far from all the haunts of men ;
Where no noise of uproar rude
Breaks the calm of solitude;
But soothing Silence sleeps in all.
Save the neighboring waterfall.
Whose hoarse waters, falling near.
Load with hollow sounds the ear.
And with down-dash'd torrent white
Gleam hoary through the shades of night.

Thus wandering silent on and slow,
I'll nurse Reflection's sacred woe.
And muse upon the happier day
When Hope would weave her visions gay.
Ere Fancy, chill'd by adverse fate,
Left sad Reality my mate.

O Contemplation ! when to Memory's eyes
Tiie visions of the long-past days arise.
Thy holy power imparts the best relief,
And the calm'd Spirit loves the joy of grief.

BriUol, 1792.

TO A FRIEND.

Oh my faithful Friend !
Oh early chosen, ever found the same,
And trusted and beloved ! once more the verse
Long destined, always obvious to tliine ear,
Attend indulgent. Akenside.

And wouldst thou seek the low abode
Where Peace delights to dwell .'
Pause, Traveller, on thy way of life !
With many a snare and peril rife
Is that long labyrinth of road !
Dark is the vale of years before ;
Pause, Traveller, on thy way.
Nor dare the dangerous path explore
Till old Experience comes to lend his leading ray.

Not he who comes with lantern light
Shall guide thy groping pace aright

With faltering feet and slow;
No ! let him rear the torch on high.

And every maze shall meet thine eye.
And every snare and every foe ;

Then with steady step and strong,

Traveller, shall thou march along.

Though Power invite thee to her hall.
Regard not thou her tempting call.
Her splendor's meteor glare ;
Though courteous Flattery there await.
And Wealth adorn the dome of State,
There stalks the midnight spectre Care :
Peace, Traveller, doth not sojourn there.

If Fame allure thee, climb not thou
To that steep mountain's craggy brow

Where stands her stately pile ;
For far from thence doth Peace abide.
And thou shalt find Fame's favoring smile
Cold as the feeble Sun on Hccla's snow-clad side

And, Traveller ! as thou hopest to find
That low and loved abode.
Retire thee from the thronging road,
And shun the mob of human-kind.
Ah ! hear how old Experience schools —
" Fly, fly the crowd of Knaves and Fools,
" And thou shalt fly from woe !
" The one thy heedless heairt will greet
" With Judas-smile, and thou wilt meet
" In every Fool a Foe ! "

So safely mayst thou pass from these,
And reach secure the home of Peace,

LYRIC POEMS.

129

And Friendship (Ind tlice there ;
No happier state can mortal know,
No happier lot can Earth bestow,
If Love thy lot shall share.
Yet still Content with him may dwell
Whom Hymen will not bless.
And Virtue sojourn in the cell
Of hermit llai)])iiK'ss.

Bi-istol, 1793.

REMEMBRANCE.

The reiiioiiilirancc ot' Voutli is a si^li All

Man liath a weary pilgrimage
As tliroiigh the world he wends,
On every stage i'rom youth to age

Still discontent attends ;
With heaviness he casts his eye

Upon the road before,
And still remembers with a sigh
The days that are no more.

To school the little e.xile goes,
Torn ii-om his mother's arms, —
What then shall soothe his earliest woes,

When novelty hath lost its charms .'
Condemn'd to sufier through the day
Restraints wiiich no rewards repay,
And cares where love has no concern,
Hope lengthens as slie counts tiie hours
Before his wish'd return.
From hard control and tyrant rules.
The unfeeling discipline of schools.

In thought he loves to roam,
And tears will struggle in his eye
While he remembers witii a sigh
The comforts of his home.

Youth comes ; the toils and cares of life

Torment the restless mind ;
Where shall the tired and harass'd heart
Its consolation find .'
Then is not Youth, as Fancy tells.

Life's sunnner prime of joy ?
Ah no I for hopes too long delay "d
And feelings blasted or betray'd,

Its fabled bliss destroy ;
And Youth remembers with a sigh
The careless days of Infancy.

Maturer Manhood now arrives.

And other thoughts come on,
But with the baseless hopes of Youth

Its generous warmth is gone ;
Cold, calculating cares succeed,
The timid thought, the wary deed.

The dull realities of truth ;
Back on the past he turns his eye.
Remembering with an envious sigh

The happy dreams of Youth.
17

So reaches he the latter stage

Of this our mortal pilgimage,
With feeble step and slow ;

New ills that latter stage await,
And old E.xperience learns too late

That all is vanity below.
Life's vain delusions are gone by;

Its idle hopes are o'er ;
Yet Age remembers with a sigh

The days that are no more.

Westbnnj, 1798.

THE SOLDIER'S WIFE.

DACTYLICS.

Weary way-wanderer, languid and sick at heart,
Travelling painfully over the rugged road, [one !
Wild-visaged Wanderer ! God help thee, wretched

Sorely thy little one drags by thee barefooted ;
Cold is the baby that hangs at thy bending back,
Meagre, and livid, and screaming for misery.

* Woe-begone mother, half anger, half agony,
As over thy shoulder thou lookest to hush the babe.
Bleakly the blinding snow beats in tliy haggard face.

Ne'er will thy husband return from tjic war again,
Cold is thy heart, and as frozen as Charity ! [forter !
Cold are thy children. — Now God be thy com-

Bristol, 1795.

THE WIDOW.

SAl'PHICS.

Cor.D was the night wind, drifting fast the snow fell,
Wide were the downs, and shelterless and naked.
When a poor Wanderer struggled on her journey,
Weary and way-sore.

Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections ,
Cold was the night-wind, colder was her bosom ;
She had no home, the world was all before her,
She had no slielter.

Fast o'er the heath a chariot rattled by her,
" I'ity me I " feebly cried the lonely wanderer;
" I'ity me, strangers ! lest with cold and hunger
Here I should perish.

" Once I had friends, — thougli now by all forsaken '
Once I had parents, — they are now in heaven 1
I had a home once — I had once a husband —
Pity ine, strangers !

" I had a home once — 1 had once a husband ••
1 am a widow, poor and broken-hearted ! "
Loud blew the wind; unheard was her complaining,
On drove the chariot.

* Tliis stanza was wiitlcn l)y S. '1". Coli:rioue.

130

LYRIC POEMS,

Then on the snow she laid her down to rest her ;
She heard a horseman ; "Pity me!" she groan'd

out;
Loud was the wind ; unheard was her complaining ;
On went the horseman.

Worn out with anguish, toil, and cold, and hunger,
Down sunk the Wanderer; sleep had seized her

senses ;
There did the traveller find her in the morning;
God had released her.

Bristol, 1795.

THE CHAPEL BELL.

Lo 1, the man who from the Muse did ask
Her deepest notes to swell the Patriot's meeds,

Am now enforced, a far unfitter task.
For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds ;

For yon dull tone, that tinkles on the air,
Bids me lay by the lyre and go to morning prayer.

0 how I hate the sound ! it is the knell
That still a requiem tolls to Comfort's hour ;

And loath am I, at Superstition's bell.

To quit or Morpheus' or the Muse's bower :
Better to lie and doze, than gape amain,
Hearing still mumbled o'er the same eternal strain.

Thou tedious herald of more tedious prayers,
Say, dost thou ever summon from his rest

One being wakening to religious cares .'
Or rouse one pious transport in the breast ?

Or rather, do not all reluctant creep
To linger out the time in listlessness or sleep .'

1 love the bell that calls the poor to pray.

Chiming from village church its cheerful sound,
When the sun smiles on Labor's holy-day,

And all the rustic train are gather'd round,
Each deftly dizen'd in his Sunday's best,
And pleased to hail the day of piety and rest.

And when, dim shadowing o'er the face of day,
The mantling mists of even-tide rise slow,

As through the forest gloom I wend my way,
The minster curfew's sullen voice 1 know,

And pause, and love its solemn toll to hear,
As made by distance soft it dies upon the ear.

Nor with an idle nor unwilling car
Do I receive the early passing-bell ;

For, sick at heart with many a secret care,
When I lie listening to the dead man's knell,

1 think that in the grave all sorrows cease.
And would full fain recline my head and be at peace.

But thou, memorial of monastic gall !

What fancy sad or lightsome hast thou given.'
Thy vision-scaring sounds alone recall

The prayer that trembles on a yawn to heaven,
The snuffling, snaffling Fellow's nasal tone,
id Romish rites retaln'd, though Romish faith be
flown.

Oxford, 1793.

TO HYMEN.

God of the torch, vi^hose soul-illuming flame
Beams brightest radiance o'er the human heart,

Of many a woe the cure,

Of many a joy the source ;

To thee I sing, if haply may the Muse

Pour forth the song unblamcd from these dull haunts,

Where never beams thy torch

To cheer the sullen scene.

I pour the song to thee, though haply doom d
Alone and unbeloved to pass my days ;

Though doom'd perchance to die

Alone and unbewall'd.

Yet will the lark, albeit in cage enthrall'd.
Send out her voice to greet the morning sun,
As wide his cheerful beams
Light up the landscape round ;

When high in heaven she hears the caroling.
The prisoner too begins her morning hymn,

And hails the beam of joy,

Of joy to her denied.

Friend to each better feeling of the soul,
I sing to thee, for many a joy is thine,

And many a Virtue comes

To join thy happy train.

Lured by the splendor of thy sacred torch.

The beacon-light of bliss, young Love draws near,

And leads his willing slaves

To wear thy flowery chain.

And chasten'd Friendship comes, whose mildest

sway
Shall cheer the hour of age, when fainter burn

The fading flame of Love,

The fading flame of Life.

Parent of every bliss, the busy hand
Of Fancy oft will paint in brightest hues

How calm, how clear, thy torch

Illumes the wintry hour ;

Will paint the wearied laborer at that hour.
When friendly darkness yields a pause to toil,

Returning blithely home

To each domestic joy ;

Will paint the well-trimm'd fire, the frugal meal
Prepared with fond solicitude to please ;

The ruddy children round

Climbing the father's knee.

And oft will Fancy rise above the lot
Of honest Poverty, and think how man

Nor rich, nor poor, enjoys

His best and happiest state ;

When toil no longer irksome and constrain a
By hard necessity, but comes to please,

LYRIC POEMS.

131

To vary the still hour
Of tranquil happiness.

Why, Fancy, wilt thou, o'er the lovely scene
Pouring thy vivid hues, why, sorceress bland,

Soothe sad reality

With visionary bliss ?

Turn thou thine eyes to where the hallowed light
Of Learning shines ; ah, rather lead thy son

Along her mystic paths

To drink the sacred spring.

Lead calmly on along the unvaried path
To solitary Age's drear abode ; —

Is it not happiness

That gives the sting to Death ?

Well then is he wliose unimbitter'd years
Are waning on in lonely listlessness ;
If Life hath little joy.
Death hath for him no sting.

Oxford, 1794.

WRITTEN

ON THE FIRST OF DECEMBER.

Though now no more the musing ear
Delights to listen to the breeze.
That lingers o'er the green-wood shade,
I love thee. Winter ! well.

Sweet arc the harmonies of Spring ;
Sweet is the Summer's evening gale ;
And sweet the Autumnal winds that shake
The many-color'd grove.

And pleasant to the sober'd soul
The silence of the wintry scene,
When Nature shrouds herself, entranced
In deep tranquillity.

Not undelightful now to roam 4t

The wild heath sparkling on the sight j
Not undelightful now to pace
The forest's ample rounds ; —

And see the spangled branches shine ;
And mark the moss of many a hue
That varies the old tree's brown bark.
Or o'er the gray stone spreads; —

And see the cluster'd berries bright
Amid the holly's gay green leaves ;
The ivy round the leafless oak
That clasps its foliage close.

So Virtue, diffident of strength,
Clings to Religion's firmer aid;
So, by Religion's aid upheld,
Endures calamity.

Nor void of beauties now the spring,
Whose waters hid from summer-sun
Have soothed the thirsty pilgrim's car
Witii more than melody.

Green moss shines there with ice incased ;
The long grass bends its spear-like form ;
And lovely is the silvery scene
When faint the sun-beams smile.

Reflection, too, may love the hour
When Nature, hid in Winter's grave,
No more expands the bursting bud,
Or bids the floweret bloom ;

For Nature soon in Spring's best charms.
Shall rise revived from Winter's grave.
Expand the bursting bud again.
And bid the flower re-bloom.

Bath, 1793.

WRITTEN

ON THE FIRST OF JANUARY.

Come, melancholy Moralizer, come !

Gather with me the dark and wintry wreatn ;

With me engarland now

The Sepulchre of Time.

Come, Moralizer, to the funeral song !
I pour the dirge of the Departed Days;

For well the funeral song

Befits this solemn hour.

But hark ! even now the merry bells ring round
With clamorous joy to welcome in this day,

This consecrated day

To Joy and Merriment.

Mortal ! while Fortune with benignant hand
Fills to the brim thy cup of happiness.

Whilst her unclouded sun

Illumes thy summer day, —

Canst thou rejoice, — rejoice that Time flies fast:*
That night shall shadow soon thy summer sun.'

That swift the stream of Years

Rolls to Eternity ^

If thou hast wealth to gratify each wish.
If power be thine, remember what thou art !

Remember thou art Man,

And Death thine heritage !

Hast thou known Love ! Doth Beauty's better sun
Cheer thy fond heart with no capricious smile,

Her eye all eloquence.

All harmony her voice .'

Oh state of happiness ! — Ilark ! how the gale
Moans deep and hollow through the leafless grove I

Winter is dark and cold ;

Where now the charms of Spring !

132

LYRIC POEMS.

Say'sl tliou that Fancy paints the future scene
In hues too sonibrous ? that the dark-stoled Maid

With frowning front severe

Aj)palls tlie shuddering soul .'

And wouldst thou bid me court lit>r fairy form,
When, as she sports lier in some happier mood,

Her many-colored robes

Float varying in the sun ?

Ah ! vainly does the Pilgrim, whose long road
Leads o'er a barren mountiin's storm-vex'd height,

With wistful eye behold

Some quiet vale, far off.

And tliere are those who love the pensive song.
To whom all sounds of Mirth are dissonant;

Them in accordant mood

This thoughtful strain will find.

For liopeless Sorrow hails tlie lapse of Time,
Rejoicing when tlie fading orb of day

Is sunk again in night.

That one day more is gone.

And he who bears Affliction's heavy load
With patient piety, well pleased he knows

The World a pilgrimage.

The Grave his inn of rest.

Batit, 1794.

WRITTEN

ON SUNDAY MORNING.

Go thou and seek the House of Praver !

I to the woodlands wend, and there
In lovely Nature see the God of Love.

The swelling organ's peal

Wakes not my soul to zeal.
Like the sweet music of the vernal grove.
The gorgeous altar and the mystic vest
Excite not such devotion in my breast.

As where the noon-tide beam,

Flash'd from some broken stream,
V^ibrates on the dazzled sight;

Or where the cloud-suspended rain

Sweeps in shadows o'er the plain ;
Or when, reclining on the cliffs huge height,
1 mark the billows burst in silver light.

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer !

1 to the Woodlands shall repair.

Feed with all Nature's charms mine eyes.

And hear all Nature's melodies.

The primrose bank will there dispense

Faint fragrance to the awaken'd sense ;

The morning beams that life and joy impart.

Will with their influence warm my heart.

And the full tear that down my cheek will steal.

Will speak the prayer of praise I feel.

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer !
1 to the Woodlands bend my way,

And meet Religion there !
She needs not haunt the high-arch'd dome to pray.
Where storied windows dim the doubtful day ;
At liberty she loves to rove,

Wide o'er the healthy hill or cowslip'd dale •
Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove.

Or with the streamlet wind along the vale.
Sweet are these scenes to her ; and when the Night
Pours in the North her silver streams of light,
She wooes reflection in the silent gloom.
And ponders on the world to come.

Bristol. 1795.

THE RACE OF BANQUO.

A FRAGMENT.

" Fly, son of Banquo ! Flcance, fly !
Leave thy guilty sire to die ! "
O'er the heath the stripling fled.
The wild storm howling round his head :
Fear, mightier through the shades of night.
Urged his feet, and wing'd his flight;
And still he heard his father's cry,
" Fly, son of Banquo 1 Fleance, fly 1 "

" Fly, son of Banquo ! Fleance, fly !

Leave thy guilty sire to die ! "

On every blast was heard the moan.

The anguish'd shriek, the death-fraught groan ;

Loathly night-hags join the 3'ell,

And lo I — the midnight rites of Hell !

" Forms of magic ! spare my life !
Shield me from the murderer's knife !
Before me, dim in lurid light.
Float the phantoms of the night —
Behind I hear my father cry,
Fly, son of Banquo — Fleance, fly ! "

" Parent of the sceptred race,
Boldly tread the circled space.
Boldly, Fleance, venture near.
Sire of monarchs, spurn at fear.
Sisters, with prophetic breath.

Pour we now the dirge of Death ! "

^f * w -it * «

Oxford, 1793.

WRITTEN IN ALENTEJO,
JANUARY 23, 1796.

1.

When at morn, the Muleteer
With early call announces day.
Sorrowing that early call I hear,
Which scares the visions of delight away
For dear to me the silent hour
When sleep exerts its wizard power.
And busy fancy, then let free.
Borne on the wings of Hope, my Edith, fliea to thee.

LYRIC POEMS.

133

When the slant sunbeams crest
The mountain's shadowy breast ;
When on the upland slope
Shines the green myrtle wet with morning dew,
And lovely as the youthful dreams of Hope,
The (lim-sccn landscape opens on the view,
I gaze around, with raptured eyes.
On Nature's charms, where no illusion lies.
And drop the joy and memory mingled tear,
And sigh to think that Edith is not here.

3.

At the cool hour of even.

When all is calm and still,

And o'er the western hill
A richer radiance robes the mellow'd heaven,

Absorb'd in darkness thence.

When slowly fades in night

The dim, decaying light,
Like the fair day-dreams of Benevolence ;

Fatigued, and sad, and slow

Along my lonely way I go.

And muse upon the distant day,
And sigh, remembering Edith far away.

When late arriving at our inn of rest,

Whose roof, exposed to many a winter's sky,
Half shelters from the wind the shivering guest;

By the lamp's melancholy gloom,

1 see the miserable room.

And musing on the evils that arise

From disproportion'd inequalities.

Pray that my lot may be

Neither with Riches, nor with Poverty,

But in tiiat happy mean,

Which for the soul is best,

And with contentment blest,

In some secluded glen
To dwell with Peace and Edith far from men.

I look'd abroad at noon.
The shadow and the storm ivere on the hills ,
The crags which like a faery fabric shone

Darkness had overcast.

On you, ye coming years,
So fairly shone the April gleam of hope ;
So darkly o'er the distance, late so bright,

Now settle the black clouds.

Come thou, and chase away
Sorrow and Pain, the persecuting Powers
Who make the melancholy day so long,

So long the restless night.

Shall we not find thee here,
Recovery, on the salt sea's breezy strand .'
Is there no healing in the gales that sweep

The thymy mountain's brow '

I look for thy approach,
O life-preserving Power ! as one who strays
Alone in darkness o'er the pathless marsh.

Watches the dawn of day.

Minehead, July, 1799.

TO RECOVERY.

Rf.covkry, where art thou.'
Daughter of Heaven, vchere shall we seek thy help .'
Upon what hallow'd fountain hast thou laid,

0 Nymph adored, thy spell .•■

By the gray ocean's verge,
Daughter of Heaven, we seek thee, but in vain ;
We find no healing in the breeze that sweeps

The thymy mountain's brow.

Where are the happy hours,
The sunshine where, that cheer'd the morn of life ?
For Health is fled, and with her fled the joys

Which made existence dear.

1 saw the distant hills

Smile in the radiance of the orient beam.
And gazed delighted that anon our feet
Should visit scenes so fair

YOUTH AND AGE.

With cheerful step the traveller

Pursues his early way,
When first the dimly-dawning east

Reveals the rising day.

He bounds along his craggy road,
He hastens up the height,

And all he sees and all he hears
Administer delight.

And if the mist, retiring slow,
Roll round its wavy white.

He thinks the morning vapors hide
Some beauty from his sight.

But when behind the western cloiid.<:

Departs the fading day,
How wearily the traveller

Pursues his evening way !

Sorely along the craggy road
His painful footsteps creep,

And slow, with many a feeble pause,
He labors up the steep.

And if the mists of night close round,
They fill his soul with fear ;

He dreads some unseen precipice,
Some hidden danger near.

So cheerfully docs youth begm
Life's pleasant morning stage ;

Alas I the evening traveller feels
The fears of wary age I

VVestburij. 1798.

134

LYRIC POEMS.

THE OAK OF OUR FATHERS.

Alas for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood !

It grew and it flourish'd for many an age,

And many a tempest wreak'd on it its rage ;

But when its strong brandies were bent with the

blast.
It struck its root deeper, and flourish d more fast.

Us head tower'd on high, and its branches spread
round: [sound;

For its roots had struck deep, and its heart was
The bees o'er its honey-dew'd foliage play'd.
And the beasts of tlie forest fed under its shade.

Tlie Oak of our Fatliers to J>cedom was dear ;
Its leaves were her crown, and its wood was her spear.
Alas for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood !

Tliere crept up an ivy and clung round the trunk ;
It struck in its mouths and the juices it drunk ;
The branches grew sickly, deprived of their food,
And the Oak was no longer tlie pride of the wood.

The foresters saw and they gather'd around ;
The roots still were fast, and the heart still was sound ;
They lopp'd off the boughs that so beautiful spread.
But tlie ivy they spared on its vitals that fed.

No longer the l)cos o'er its honey-dews play'd.
Nor the beasts of the forest fed under its shade ;
Lopp'd and mangled tlie trunk in its ruin is seen,
A monument now what its beauty has been.

The Oak has received its incurable wound;
They liave loosen'd the roots, though the heart
may be sound ; [see,

What the travellers at distance green-flourishing
Are the leaves of the ivy that poison'd the tree.

Alas for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood !

Westbunj, 1798.

THE BATTLE OF PULTOWA.

On Vorska's glittering waves
The morning sunbeams play ;
Pultowa's walls are throng'd

With eager multitudes ;

Athwart the dusty vale
They strain their aching eyes,
Where to the fight moves on
The Conqueror Charles, the iron-hearted Swede.

nim Famine hath not tamed,

The tamer of the brave;
Him Winter hath not quell'd ;
When man by man his veteran troops sunk down.
Frozen to their endless sleep,
He held undaunted on

Him Pain hath not subdued ;
What though he mounts not now
The fiery steed of war .'
Borne on a litter to the field he goes.

Go, iron-hearted King !
Full of thy former fame —
Think how the humbled Dane
Crouch'd underneath thy sword ;
Think how the wretched Pole
Resign'd his conquer'd crown ;
Go, iron-hearted King !
Let Narva's glory swell thy haughty breast, —
The death-day of thy glory, Charles, hath dawn'd!
Proud Swede, the Sun hath risen
That on thy shame shall set !

Now, Patkul, may thine injured spirit rest !
For over that relentless Swede
Ruin hath raised his unrelenting arm ;

For ere the night descends,

His veteran host destroyed,
His laurels blasted to revive no more,

He flies before the Moscovite.

Impatiently that haughty heart must bear
Long years of hope deceived ;

Long years of idleness
That sleepless soul must brook.
Now, Patkul, may thine injured spirit rest '
To him who suff'ers in an honest cause
No death is ignominious ; not on thee,
But upon Charles, the cruel, tlie unjust.
Not upon thee, — on him
The ineffaceable reproach is fix'd,
The infamy abides.
Now, Patkul, may thine injured spirit rest.

Westbui-y, 1798.

THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN.

Sweet to the morning traveller

The song amid the sky.
Where, twinkling in the dewy light,

The skylark soars on high.

And cheering to the traveller
The gales that round him play,

When faint and heavily he drags
Along his noon-tide way.

And when beneath the unclouded sun

Full wearily toils he,
The flowing water makes to him

A soothing melody.

And when the evening light decays,

And all is calm around.
There is sweet music to his ear

In the distant sheep-bell's sound.

But oh ! of all delightful sounds
Of evening or of morn.

LYRIC POEMS.

135

The sweetest is the voice of Love,
That welcomes his return.

Westbury, 1798.

THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS,

AND HOW HE GAINED THEM.

5 ou are old. Father William, the young man cried ;

The few locks which are left you are gray ;
Vou are hale. Father William, a hearty old man ;

Now tell me tlie reason, 1 pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William replied,
I remember'd that youth would tly fast.

And abused not my health and my vigor at first.
That 1 never might need them at last.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
And pleasures with youth pass away;

And yet you lament not the days that are gone ;
Now tell me the reason, I pray.

in the days of my youth. Father William replied,
I remember'd that youth could not last ;

I thought of the future, whatever I did.
That I never might grieve for the past.

You are old. Father William, the young man cried.

And life must bo hastening away ;
You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death ;

Now tell me the reason, I pray.

I am cheerful, young man. Father William replied;

Let the cause thy attention engage ;
In the days of my youth I remember'd my God !

And He hath not forgotten my age.

Wcstbunj, 1799.

TRANSLATION OF A GREEK ODE
ON ASTRONOMY,

WRITTEN BV S. T. COLERIDGE, FOR THE PRIZE AT
CAMBRIDGE, 1793.

Hail, venerable Night!
O first-created, hail !
Thou who art doom'd in thy dark breast to veil
The dying beam of liglit.
The eldest and tlie latest thou,
Hail, venerable Night !
Around thine ebon brow.
Glittering plays with lightning rays
A wreath of flowers of fire.
Tlie varying clouds with many a hue attire
Thy many-tinted veil.
Holy are the blue graces of thy zone !
But who is he whose tongue can tell
The dewy lustres which thine eyes adorn .'
Lovely to some the blushes of the morn ;

To some tlic glories of tlie Day,
When, blazing with meridian ray.

The gorgeous Sun ascends his highest throne ;
But I with solemn and severe delinht

Still watch thy constant car, immortal Night'

For then to the celestial Palaces
Urania leads, Urania, she

The Goddess who alone
Stands by the blazing throne.
Effulgent with the liglit of Deity.
Wiioin Wisdom, the Creatrix, by her side
Placed on the heights of yonder sky.
And smiling witli ambrosial love, unlock'd
Tlie depths of Nature to her piercing eye.
Angelic myriads struck their harps around,
And with triumphant song
The host of Stars, a beauteous throng,

Around the ever-living Mind

In jubilee their mystic dance begun ;

When at thy leaping forth, O Sun '

Tlie Morning started in affrio-ht,

Astonish'd at thy birth, her Child of Light '

Hail, O Urania, hail !
Queen of the Muses ! Mistress of the Song!
For thou didst deign to leave the heavenly thromr
As earthward thou thy steps wert bendimr,
A ray went forth and harbinger'd thy way
All Ether laugli'd with thy descendino-.
Thou hadst wreath'd thy hair with roses.
The flower that in the immortal bower
Its deathless bloom discloses.
Before thine awful mien, compelled to shrink,
Fled Ignorance, abash'd, with all her brood,
Dragons, and Hags of baleful breath,
Fierce Dreams, that wont to drink
The Sepulchre's black blood;
Or on the wings of storms
Riding in fury forms.
Shriek to the mariner the shriek of Death.

4.

I boast, O Goddess, to thy name
That I have raised the pile of fame ;

Therefore to me be given
To roam the starry path of Heaven,
To charioteer with wings on high.
And to rein-in the Tempests of the sky.

Chariots of happy Gods ! Fountains of Light !

Ye Angel-Temples briglit !
May I unblamed your flamy thresholds tread .'
I leave Earth's lowly scene ;
I leave the Moon serene.
The lovely Queen of Night;
I leave the wide domains,
Beyond where Mars his fiercer light can fling,
And Jupiter's vast plains,
(The many-belted king ;)
Even to the solitude where Saturn reigns,

136

LYRIC POEMS.

Like some stern tyrant to just exile driven ;
Dim-seen the sullen power appears
In that cold solitude of Heaven,
And slow he drags along
The mighty circle of long-lingering years.

Nor shalt thou escape my sight,
Who at the threshold of the sun-trod domes
Art trembling, — youngest Daughter of the Night !
And you, ye fiory-tressed strangers ! you.
Comets who wander wide.
Will I along your pathless way pursue,
Whence bending I may view
The Worlds whom elder Suns have vivified.

For Hope with loveliest visions soothes my mind.
That even in Man, Life's winged power,
When comes again the natal hour.
Shall on heaven-wandering feet.
In undecaying youth.
Spring to the blessed seat;
Where round the fields of Truth
The fiery Essences forever feed ;
And o'er the ambrosial mead.
The breezes of serenity
Silent and soothing glide forever by.

8.
There, Priest of Nature ! dost thou shine,
Newton ! a Kino- amono- the Kinn-s divine.
Whether with harmony's mild force,
He guides along its course
The a.xle of some beauteous star on high.
Or gazing, in the spring
Ebullient with creative energy.
Feels his pure breast with rapturous joy possess'd,
Inebriate in the holy ecstasy.

9.

I may not call thee mortal then, my soul !
Immortal longings lift thee to the skies :
Love of thy native home inflames thee now.
With pious madness wise.
Know then thyself! expand thy wings divine !
Soon, mingled with thy fathers, thou shalt shine
A star amid the starry throng,
A God the Gods among.

London, 1802.

GOOSEBERRY-PIE.

A PINDARIC ODE.

1.

GoosEBERRY-PiE is best.
Full of the theme, O Muse, begin the song !
What though the sunbeams of the West

Mature within the Turtle's breast
Blood glutinous and fat of verdant hue ?

What though the Deer bound sportively along

O'er springy turf, the Park's elastic vest ?

Give them their honors due, —

But Gooseberry-Pie is best.

Behind his oxen slow
The patient Ploughman plods.
And as the Sower followed by the clods
Earth's genial womb received the living seed.
The rains descend, the grains they grow ;

Saw ye the vegetable ocean
Roll its green ripple to the April gale .'
The golden waves with multitudinous motion
Swell o'er the summer vale ?

3.

It flows tlirough Alder banks along
Beneath the copse that hides the hill ;
The gentle stream you cannot see.
You only hear its melody,
The stream that turns the Mill.
Pass on a little way, pass on.
And you shall catch its gleam anon ;
And hark ! tlie loud and agonizing groan,
That makes its anguish known,
Where tortured by the Tyrant Lord of Meal
The Brook is broken on the Wheel !

Blow fair, blow fair, thou orient gale !
On the white bosom of the sail,
Ye Winds, enamor'd, lingering lie I
Ye Waves of ocean, spare the bark.
Ye tempests of the sky !
From distant realms she comes to bring
The sugar for my Pie.
For this on Gambia's arid side
The Vulture's feet are scaled with blood,
And Beelzebub beholds with pride
His darling planter brood.

First in the spring thy leaves were seen,
Thou beauteous bush, so early green !
Soon ceased thy blossoms' little life of love

O safer than the gold-fruit-bearing tree.
The glory of that old Hesperian grove, —

No Dragon does there need for thee

With quintessential sting to work alarms.

Prepotent guardian of thy fruitage fine.

Thou vegetable Porcupine ! —

And didst thou scratch thy tender arms,

O Jane ! that I should dine !

6.
The flour, the sugar, and the fruit,
Commingled well, how well they suit !

And they were well bestow'd.
O Jane, with truth 1 praise your Pie,
And will not you in just reply
Praise my Pindaric Ode .'

Exeter, 1799.

LYRIC POEMS.

137

TO A BEE.

Tiiou wert out betimes, thou busy, busy Bee !

As abroad 1 took my early wa}',

Before the Cow from her resting-place

Had risen up and left her trace

On the meadow, with dew so gray.

Saw I thee, tiiou busy, busy Bee.

Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy Bee !
After the fall of the Cistus flower.
When the Primrose-of-evening was ready to burst,
I heard thee last, as I saw thee first ;
In the silence of the evening hour,
Heard 1 thee, thou busy, busy Bee.

3.
Thou art a miser, thou busy, busy Bee !
Late and early at employ ;
Still on thy golden stores intent.
Thy summer in heaping and hoarding is spent

What thy winter will never enjoy ;
Wise lesson this for me, thou busy, busy Bee I

4.
Little dost thou think, thou busy, busy Bee !

What is the end of thy toil.
When the latest flowers of the ivy are gone.
And all thy work for the year is done.

Thy master comes for the spoil.
Woe then for thee, thou busy, busy Bee !

Westbunj, 1799.

TO A SriDER,

L

Spider ! thou need'st not run in fear about
To simn my curious eyes ;
I won't humanely crush thy bowels out
Lest thou shouldst eat the flies ;
Nor will 1 roast thee v.'ith a damn'd delight
Thy strange instinctive fortitude to see.
For there is One who might
One day roast me.

2.

Thou art welcome to a Rhymer sore-perplex'd.
The subject of his verse ;
There's many a one who, on a better text,
Perhaps might comment worse.
Then shrink not, old Free-Ma?on, from my view,
But quietly like me spin out the line ;
Do thou thy work pursue,
As 1 will mine.

3.
Weaver of snares, thou emblemest the ways

Of Satan, Sire of lies ;
Hell's huge black Spider, for mankind he lays
His toils, as thou for flies.
13

When Betty's busy eye runs round the room.
Woe to that nice geometry, if seen !
But where is he whose broom
The earth shall clean ?

Spider ! of old thy flimsy webs were thouglit —

And 'twas a likeness true —
To emblem laws in which the weak are caught.
But which the strong; break through :
And if a victim in thy toils is ta'en,
Like some poor client is that wretched fly ,
I'll warrant thee thou'lt drain
His life-blood dry.

And is not thy weak work like human schemes
And care on earth employ'd ?
Such are young hopes and Love's delightful dreams

So easily dcstroy'd !

So does the Statesman, whilst the Avengers sleep,

Sclf-deem'd secure, his wiles in secret lay ;

Soon shall destruction sweep

His work away.

Thou busy laborer ! one resemblance more

May yet the verse prolong.

For, Spider, thou art like the Poet poor,

Whom thou hast help'd in song.

Both busily our needful food to win.

We work, as Nature taught, with ceaseless pains ,

Thy bowels thou dost spin,

I spin my brains.

Weslbunj, 1798.

THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM

The rage of Babylon is roused,
The King puts forth his strength ;
And Judah bends the bow
And points her arrows for the coming war.

Her walls are firm, her gates are strong,
Her youth gird on the sword ;
High are her chiefs in hope.
For soon will Egypt send the promised aid.

But who is he whose voice of woe
Is heard amid the streets .'
Whose ominous voice proclaims
Her strength, and arms, and promised succors
vain ?

His meagre cheek is pale and sunk.
Wild is his hollow eye,
Yet awful is its glance ;
And who could bear the anger of his frown .'

Prophet of God ! in vain thy lips
Proclaim the woe to come ;
In vain thy warning voice
Summons her rulers timely to repent !

]38

LYRIC POEMS.

The Etluop changes not his skin.
Impious and reckless still
The rulers spurn thy voice,
And now the measure of their crimes is full.

For now around Jerusalem
The countless foes appear ;
Far as the eye can reach
Spreads the wide horror of the circling siege.

Why is the warrior's cheek so pale ?
Why droops the gallant youth
Who late in pride of heart
Sharpen'd his javelin for the welcome war .'

'Tis not for terror that his eye
Swells with the struggling woe ;
Oh ! he could bear his ills,
Or rush to death, and in the grave have peace.

His parents do not ask for food,
But they are weak with want ;
His wife has given her babes
Her wretched pittance, — she makes no com-
plaint.

The consummating hour is come !
Alas for Solyma !
How is she desolate, —
She that was great among the nations, fallen !

And thou — thou miserable King —
Where is thy trusted flock.
Thy flock so beautiful,
Thy Father's throne, the temple of thy God .'

Repentance brings not back the past ;
It will not call again
Thy murder'd sons to life.
Nor vision to those eyeless sockets more.

Thou wretched, childless, blind, old man.
Heavy thy punishment ;
Dreadful thy present woes,
Alas, more dreadful thy remember'd guilt !

Westbury, 1798.

THE DEATH OF WALLACE.

Joy, joy in London now !
He goes, the rebel Wallace goes to death ;
At length the traitor meets the traitor's doom,

Joy, joy, in London now !

He on a sledge is drawn.
His strong right arm unweapon'd and in chains,
And garlanded around his helmless head

The laurel wreath of scorn.

They throng to view him now
Who in the field had fled before his sword.
Who at the name of Wallace once grew pale

And falter'd out a prayer.

Yes ! they can meet his eye,
That only beams with patient courage now ;
Yes ! they can look upon those manly limbs^

Defenceless now and bound.

And that eye did not shrink
As he beheld the pomp of infamy ;
Nor one ungovern'd feeling shook those limbs,

When the last moment came.

What though suspended sense
Was by their legal cruelty revived ; [life

What thousrh iiifrenious venjjeance lengthcn'd

To feel protracted death .-'

What though the hangman's hand
Grasped in his living breast the heaving heart .' —
In the last agony, the last, sick pang,

Wallace had comfort still.

He call'd to mind his deeds
Done for his country in the embattled field ;
He thought of that good cause for which he died,

And it was joy in death.

Go, Edward ! triumph now !
Cambria is fallen, and Scotland's strength is

crush'd ;
On Wallace, on Llewellyn's mangled limbs,

The fowls of Heaven have fed.

Unrivall'd, unopposed.
Go, Edward, full of glory to thy grave !
The weight of patriot blood upon thy soul,

Go, Edward, to thy God !

Westburij, 1793.

THE SPANISH ARMADA.

Clear shone the morn, the gale was fair,
When from Coruria's crowded port
With many a cheerful shout and loud acclaim
The huge Armada past.

To England's shores their streamers point,
To England's shores their sails are spread.
They go to triumph o'er the sea-girt land.
And Rome hath blest their arms.

Along the ocean's echoing verge.
Along the mountain range of rocks.
The clustering multitudes behold their pomp,
And raise the votive prayer.

Commingling with the ocean's roar
Ceaseless and hoarse their murmurs rise.
And soon they trust to see the winged bark
That bears good tidings home.

The watch-tower now in distance sinks,
And now Galicia's mountain rocks
Faint as the far-off" clouds of evening lie,
And now they fade away.

LYRIC

P 0 E M S . 139

Each like some moving citadel,

Thy hand is on him, righteous God !

On througli the waves they sail sublime ;

He hears the frantic shrieks.

And now the Spaniards see the silvery clifi's,

He hears tlie glorying yells of massacre,

Behold the sea-girt land !

And he repents, — too late.

O fools ! to think that ever foe

He hears the nmrdeirer's savage shout.

Should triumph o'er that sea-girt land !

He hears the groan of death ;

0 fools ! to think that ever Britain's sons

In vain they fly, — soldiers defenceless now.

Should wear the stranger's yoke 1

Women, old men, and babes.

For not in vain hath Nature rcar'd

Rigliteous and just art thou, O God !

Around her coast those silvery cliffs ;

For at his dying hour

For not in vain old Ocean spreads his waves

Those slirieks and groans reechoed in his ear,

To guard his favorite isle !

He heard that murderous yell !

On come her gallant mariners !

They throng'd around his midnight couch,

What now avail Rome's boasted charms ?

The phantoms of the slain ; —

Where are the Spaniard's vaunts of eager wrath ?

It prey'd like poison on his powers of life :

His hopes of conquest now?

Righteous art thou, O God !

And hark ! the angry Winds arise ;

Spirits ! who suffer'd at that hour

Old Ocean heaves his angry Waves ;

For freedom and for faitli,

The Winds and Waves against the invaders fight,

Ye saw your country bent beneath the yoke,

To guard the sea-girt land.

Her faith and freedom crush'd.

Howling around his palace-towers

And like a giant from his sleep

The Spanish despot hears the storm ;

Ye saw when France awoke ;

He thinks upon his navies far away,

Ye saw t!ie people burst tlieir double chain,

And boding doubts arise.

And ye had joy in Heaven !

Weslbunj, 1798.

Long, over Biscay's boisterous surge
The watchman's aching eye sliall strain 1

A

w

Long shall he gaze, but never wing'd bark

Shall bear good tidings home.

THE HOLLY-TREE.

Westbury, 1798.

1.

O Reader ! hast thou ever stood to see
The Holly-Tree.'

The eye that contemplates it well perceives

ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S DAY.

Its glossy leaves

Order'd by an intelligence so wise.

The night is come ; no fears disturb

As might confound the Atheist's sophistries.

The dreams of innocence ;

2.

Tiiey trust in kingly faith and kingly oaths ;

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen

They sleep, — alas ! they sleep !

Wrinkled and keen ;

No grazing cattle through their prickly round

Go to the palace, wouldst thou know

Can reach to wound ;

How hideous night can be ;

But as they grow where nothing is to fear.

Eye is not closed in those accursed walls,

Smooth and unarm'd the pointless leaves appear.

Nor heart at quiet there.

3.

I love to view these things with curious eyes,

The Monarch from the window leans,

He listens to the niglit,

And moralize ;

And with a horrible and eager hope

And in this wisdom of the Holly-Tree

Awaits the midnight bell.

Can emblem see

Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme,

Oh, ho has Hell within him now !

One which may profit in the after time.

God, always art thou just 1

For innocence can never know such pangs

4.

As pierce successful guilt.

Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear

Harsh and austere.

He looks abroad, and all is still.

To those who on my leisure would intrude

Hark ! — now tlie midnight bell

Reserved and rude,

Sounds through the silence of the night alone, —

Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be

And now the signal gun !

Like the high leaves upon the Holly-Tree.

140 L Y 11 1 C

POEMS.

And should my youth, as youth is apt, 1 know,

THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR

Some harsliness show,

All vain asperities I day by day

And wherefore do the Poor complain .'

Would wear away,

The Rich Man ask'd of me ; —

Till the smooth temper ot" my age should be

Come walk abroad with me, 1 said.

Like the high leaves upon the Holly-Tree.

And 1 will answer thee.

6.

'Twas evening, and the frozen streets

And as, when all the summer trees are seen

Were cheerless to behold,

So bright and green,

And we were wrapp'd and coated well,

The Holly leaves a sober hue display

And yet we were a-cold.

Less bright than they ;

But when the bare and wintry woods we see,

We met an old, bare-headed man;

What then so cheerful as the Holly-Tree ?

His locks were thin and white ;

I ask'd him what he did abroad

7.

In that cold winter's night.

So serious should my youth appear among

The thoughtless throng ;

The cold was keen indeed, he said,

So would I seem amid the young and gay

But at home no fire had he.

More grave than they.

And therefore he had come abroad

That in my age as cheerful I might be

To ask for charity.

As the green winter of the Holly-Tree.

We met a young, bare-footed child,

Westbunj, 1798.

And she begg'd loud and bold ;

*

1 ask'd her what she did abroad

^

When the wind it blew so cold.

THE EBB TIDE.

She said her father was at home,

Slowly thy flowing tide

And he lay sick a-bed ;

Came in, old Avon ! scarcely did mine eyes.

And therefore was it she was sent

As watchfully I roam'd thy green-wood side,

Abroad to beg for bread.

Perceive its gentle rise.

We saw a woman sitting down

With many a stroke and strong

Upon a stone to rest ;

The laboring boatmen upward plied their oars ;

She had a baby at her back,

Yet little way they made, though laboring long

And another at her breast.

Between thy winding shores.

I ask'd her why she loiter'd there

Now down thine ebbing tide

When the night-wind was so chill ;

The unlabor'd boat falls rapidly along ;

She turn'd her head and bade the child

The solitary helmsman sits to guide,

That scream'd behind, be still; —

And sings an idle song.

Then told us tliat her husband served,

Now o'er the rocks that lay

A soldier, far away,

So silent late, the shallow current roars ;

And therefore to her parish she

Fast flow thy waters on their seaward way

Was begging back her way.

Through wider-spreading shores.

We met a girl ; her dress was loose,

Avon ! I gaze and know

And sunken was her eye.

The lesson emblem'd in thy varying way :

Who with a wanton's hollow voice

It speaks of human joys that rise so slow,

Address'd the passers-by.

So rapidly decay.

I ask'd her wliat there was in guilt

Kingdoms which long have stood,

That could her heart allure

And slow to strength and power attain'd at last,

To shame, disease, and late remorse :

Thus from the summit of high fortune's flood

She answcr'd, she was poor.

They ebb to ruin fast.

I turn'd me to the Rich Man then.

Thus like tiiy flow appears

For silently stood he, —

Time's tardy course to manhood's envied stage ;

You ask'd me why the poor complain.

Alas! how hurryingly the ebbing years

And these have answer'd thee !

Then hasten to old age !

London, 1798.

Westbunj, 1799

LYRIC POEMS.

141

TO MARY.

Mary i ten chcckcr'd years have past
Since we beheld each other last ;
Yet, Mary, I remember thee.
Nor canst thou liave forgotten me.

The bloom was tlien upon thy face ;
Thy form had every youthful grace ;
1 too had tlicn the warmth of youth.
And in our hearts was all its truth.

We conversed, were there others by,
With common mirth and random eye ;
But when escaped the sight of men.
How serious vpas our converse then !

Our talk was then of years to come,
Of hopes which ask'd a humble doom.
Themes wliicli to loving thoughts might move,
Although we never spake of love.

At our last meeting sure thy heart
AVas even as loath as mine to part ;
And yet we little thought that then
We parted — not to meet again.

Long, Mary ! after that adieu.
My dearest day-dreams were of you ;
In sleep 1 saw you still, and long
Made you the theme of secret song.

When manhood and its cares came on,
The humble hopes of youth were gone ;
And other hopes and other fears
Effaced the thoughts of happier years.

Meantime through many a varied year
Of thee no tidings did I hear,
And thou hast never heard my name
Save from the vague reports of fame.

But then, I trust, detraction's lie
Hath kindled anger in thine eye ;
And thou my praise wert proud to see, —
My name should still be dear to thee.

Ten years have held their course ; thus late
1 learn the tidings of thy fate ;
A Husband and a Father now,
Of thee, a Wife and Mother thou.

And, Mary, as for thee I frame

A prayer which hath no selfish aim.

No happier lot can 1 wish thee

Than such as Heaven hath granted me.

London, 1802.

TO A FRIEND,

INQUIRING IF I WOULD LIVE OVER MY YOUTH AGAIN.
1.

Do I regret the past .'

Would I again live o'er
The morning hours of life .'
Nay, William ! nay, not so !

In the warm joyance of the summer sun,
I do not wish again
The changeful April day.
Nay, William ! nay, not so !
Safe haven'd from the sea,
1 would not tempt again
The uncertain ocean's wrath.
Praise be to Him who made me what I am,
Other I would not be.

2.

Why is it pleasant then, to sit and talk
Of days that are no more ?
When in his own dear home
The traveller rests at last,
And tells how often in his wanderings,
The thought of those far off
Hath made his eyes o'erflow
Witli no unmanly tears ; '
Delighted he recalls [trod ;

Through what fair scenes his lingering feet have
But ever when he tells of perils past
And troubles now no more.
His eyes are brightest, and a readier joy
Flows thankful from his heart.

No, William ! no, I would not live again
The morning hours of life ;

I would not be again
The slave of hope and fear ;
I would not learn again
The wisdom by Experience hardly taught.

4.

To me the past presents
No object for regret;
To me the present gives
All cause for full content.
The future .' — it is now the cheerful noon.
And on tlie sunny-smiling fields I gaze
With eyes alive to joy ;
When the dark night descends,
I willingly shall close my weary lids.
In sure and certain hope to wake again.

Westbimj, 1798.

THE DEAD FRIEND.

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul,
Descend to contemplate
The form that once was dear I

The Spirit is not there
Which kindled that dead eye.
Which throbb'd in that cold heart,
Which in that motionless hand
Hath met thy friendly grasp.
The Spirit is not there !
It is but lifeless, perishable flesh
That moulders in the grave ;
Earth, air, and water's ministering particles

142 SONGS OF THE AMERICAN INDIANS.

Now to the elements

Unhappy man was he

Resolved, their uses done.

On whom thine angry eye was fix'd in fight I

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul,

And he who from thy hand

Follow thy friend beloved ;

Received the calumet,

The Spirit is not there !

Blest Heaven, and slept in peace.

2.
Often together have we talk'd of death ;

2.

When the Evil Spirits seized thee.

How sweet it were to see

Brother, we were sad at heart :

All doubtful tilings made clear;

We bade the Jongler come

How sweet it were with powers

And bring his magic aid;

Such as the Cherubim,

We circled thee in mystic dance,

To view the depth of Heaven !

With songs and shouts and cries,

O Edmund ! thou hast first

To free thee from their power.

Begun the travel of Eternity I

Brother, but in vain we strove ;

I look upon the stars.

The number of thy days was full.

And think that thou art there.

Unfetter'd as the thought that follows thee.

3.

Thou sittest amongst us on thy mat ;

3.

The bear-skin from thy shoulder hangs ,

And we have often said how sweet it were

Thy feet are sandall'd ready for the way

With unseen ministry of angel power.

Those are the unfatigueable feet

To watch the friends we loved.

That traversed the forest track ;

Edmund ! we did not err !

Those are the lips that late

Sure I have felt thy presence ! Thou hast given

Thunder'd the yell of war ;

A birth to holy thought.

And that is the strong right arm

Hast kept me from the world unstain'd and pure.

Which never was lifted in vain.

Edmund ! we did not err !

Those lips are silent now ;

Our best aifections here

The limbs that were active are stiff;

They are not like the toys of infancy ;

Loose hangs the strong right arm !

The Soul outgrows them not ;

We do not cast them off;

4.

O, if it could be so.

And where is That which in thy voice

It were indeed a dreadful thing to die !

The language of friendship spake .'

That gave the strength of thine arm "

4.

That fill'd thy limbs with life .'

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul,

It was not Thou, for Thou art here,

Follow thy friend beloved !

Thou art amongst us still,

But in the lonely hour,

But the Life and the Feeling are gone.

But in the evening walk.

The Iroquois will learn

Think that he companies thy solitude ;

That thou hast ceased from war ;

Think that he holds with thee

'Twill be a joy like victory to them.

Mysterious intercourse ;

For thou wert the scourge of their nation.

And though remembrance wake a tear,

5.

There will be joy in grief.

Brother, we sing thee the song of death ;

Wesibury, 1799.

In thy coffin of bark we lay thee to rest ;

The bow shall be placed by thy side.

And the shafts that are pointed and feather'd for
flight.
To the country of the Dead

SONGS

Long and painful is thy way;

OF

Over rivers wide and deep

THE AMERICAN INDIANS.

Lies the road that must be past,

By bridges narrow-wall'd,

Where scarce the Soul can force its way.
While the loose fabric totters under it.

THE HURON'S ADDRESS TO THE DEAD.

6.

Safely may our brother pass !

1.

Brother, thou wert strong in youth !

Safely may he reach the fields.

Brother, thou wert brave in war I

Where the sound of the drum and the shell

Unhappy man was he

Shall be heard from the Country of Souls !

For whom thou hadst sharpen 'd the tomahawk's

The Spirits of thy Sires

edge!

Shall come to welcome thee :

SONGS OF THE AMERICAN INDIANS. 14J

Tlie God of the Dead in his Bower

4.

Shall receive thee, and bid thee join

My Fatlier, rest in peace !

The dance of eternal joy.

Rest with the dust of tliy Sires !

They placed tlieir Cross in thy dying grasp; —

7.

They bore thee to their burinl-place.

Brother, we pay thee the rites of death ;

And over thy breathless frame

Rest in thy Bower of Delight !

Their bloody and merciless Priest

Mumbled his magic hastily.

Westbury, 1799.

Oh 1 could tliy bones be at peace

In the field where the Strangers are laid .' —

♦

Alone, in danger and in pain.

My Father, 1 bring thee here;

THE PERUVIAN'S DIRGE OVER THE

So may our God, in reward.
Allow me one faithful friend

BODY OF HIS FATHER.

To lay me beside thee when 1 am released !

So may he summon me soon.

1.

That my Spirit may join thee there.

Rest in peace, my Father, rest !

Where the strangers never shall come I

With danger and toil liave 1 borne thy corpse

Exeter, 1799.

From the Stranger's field of death.
I bless thee, O Wife of the Sun,

w

For veiling thy beams with a cloud.

While at the pious task

SONG OF THE ARAUCANS

Tliy votary toil'd in fear.

Thou badcst the clouds of night

DURING A THUNDER-STORM.

Enwrap thee, and hide thee from Man ;

But didst thou not see my toil.

The storm-cloud grows deeper above ,

And put on the darkness to aid,

Araucans ! the tempest is ripe in the sky ;

O Wife of the visible God .'

Our forefathers come from their Islands of Bliss,

Q

They come to the war of the winds

Wretched, my Father, thy life !

The Souls of the Strangers are there,

Wretched the life of the Slave !

In their garments of darkness they ride through the

All day for another he toils ;

heaven ;

Overwearied at night he lies down.

Yon cloud that rolls luridly over tlie hill

And dreams of the freedom that once he enjoy 'd.

Is red with their weapons of fire.

Thou wert blest in the days of tiiy youth.

My Father ! for then thou wert free.

Hark ! hark 1 in the howl of the wind

in the fields of the nation thy hand

The shout of tiie battle, the clang of their drums ;

Bore its part of the general task ;.

The horsemen are met, and the shock of the fight

And when, with the song and the dance.

Is the blast that disbranches the wood.

Ye brought tlie harvest home.

As all in the labor had shared,

Behold from the clouds of their power

So justly they shared in the fruits.

The lightning, — the lightning is lanced at our

3.

sires 1
And the thunder that shakes the broad pavement

Thou visible Lord of the Earth,

of Heaven !

Thou God of my Fathers, thou God of my heart,

And the darkness that quenches the day !

0 Giver of light and of life !

When the Strangers came to our shores,

Ye Souls of our Fathers, be brave !

Why didst thou not put forth thy power .'

Ye shrunk not before the invaders on earth,

Thy thunders should then have been hurl'd,

Ye trembled not then at their weapons of fire ;

Thy fires should in lightnings have flash'd 1 —

Brave Spirits, ye tremble not now !

Visible God of the Earth,

The Strangers mock at thy miglit !

We gaze on your warfare in hope,

To idols and beams of wood

We send up our shouts to encourage your arms !

They force us to bow tiie knee ;

Lift the lance of your vengeance, O Fathers, with

They plunge us in caverns and dens.

force.

Where never thy blessed light

For the wrongs of your country strike home '

Shines on our poisonous toil 1

But not in the caverns and dens,

Remember the land was your own

O Sun, are we mindless of thee !

When the Sons of Destruction came over the seas,

We pine for the want of thy beams.

That the old fell asleep in the fulness of days,

We adore thee with anguish and groans.

And their children wept over their graves;

144

SONGS OF THE AMERICAN INDIANS.

Till the Strangers came into the land
With tongues of deceit and with weapons of fire :
Then the strength of the people in youth was cutoff,

And the father wept over his son.

It thickens — the tumult of fight'.
Louder and louder the blast of the battle is heard I —
Remember the wrongs tliat your country endures !

Remember the fields of your fame !

Joy ! joy ! for the Strangers recoil, —
rhey give way, — they retreat, — they are routed, —

they fly ;
Pursue them ! pursue them ! remember your
wrongs !
Let your lances be drunk with their wounds.

The Souls of your wives shall rejoice
As they welcome you back to your Islands of Bliss ;
And the breeze that refreshes the toil-throbbing brow

Waft thither the song of your praise.

Westburij, 1799.

SONG OF THE CHIKKASAH WIDOW.

TwAS the voice of my husband that came on the

gale;
His unappeased Spirit in anger complains ;

Rest, rest, Ollanalita, be still !

The day of revenge is at hand.

The stake is made ready, tlie captives shall die ;

To-morrow the song of their death shalt thou hear ;
To-morrow thy widow shall wield
The knife and the fire ; — be at rest !

The vengeance of anguish shall soon have its
course, —

The fountains of grief and of fury shall flow, —
1 will think, Ollanahta ! of thee,
Will remember the days of our love.

Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sat,
Where idly thy hatchet of battle is hung;
I gazed on the bow of thy strength
As it waved on the stream of the wind.

The scalps that we number'd in triumph were there.
And the musket that never was levell'd in vain, —

What a leap has it given to my heart

To see thee suspend it in peace !

When the black and blood-banner was spread to

the gale,
When thrice the deep voice of the war-drum was
heard,
1 remember thy terrible eyes
How they flash'd the dark glance of thy joy.

1 remember the hope that shone over thy cheek,
As thy iiand from the pole reach'd its doers of death ;
Like the ominous gleam of the cloud,
Ere the thunder and lightning are born

He went, and ye came not to warn him in dreams
Kindred Spirits of Him who is holy and great I

And wliere was thy warning, O Bird,

The timely announcer of ill.'

Alas ! when thy brethren in conquest return 'd ;

When I saw the white plumes bending over their
heads.
And the pine-boughs of triumph before.
Where the scalps of their victory swung, —

The war-hymn they pour'd, and thy voice was not
there ! [brought :

I caird thee, — alas, the white dccr-skin was
And thy grave was prepared in the tent
Which I had made ready for joy !

Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sit, —
Ollanahta, all night I weep over thy grave !

To-morrow the victims shall die,

And I shall have joy in revenge.

Westbunj, 1799.

THE

OLD CHIKKASAH TO HIS GRANDSON

Now go to the battle, my Boy I
. Dear child of my son,
There is strength in thine arm.
There is hope in thy heart,
Thou art ripe for the labors of war.

Thy Sire was a stripling like thee
When he went to the first of his fields.

2.

He return'd, in the glory of conquest return'd :
Before him his trophies were borne.
These scalps that have hung till the Sun and the
Have rusted their raven locks. [rain

Here he stood when the morn of rejoicing arrived,
The day of the warrior's reward ;
When the banners sunbeaming were spread,
And all hearts were dancing in joy
To the sound of the victory-drum.
The Heroes were met to receive their reward,
But distinguish'd among the young Heroes that day,
The pride of his nation, thy Fatlier was seen :
The swan-feathers hung from his neck.
His face like the rainbow was tinged,
And his eye, — how it sparkled in pride !
The Elders approach'd, and they placed on his brow
The crown that his valor had won,
And they gave him the old honor'd name.
They reported the deeds lie had done in the war,
And the youth of the nation were told
To respect him and tread in his steps.

3.
My Boy ! I have seen, and with hope,

The courage that rose in thine eye
When I told thee the tale of his death.
His war-pole now is gray with moss,

OCCASIONAL PIECES

145

His tomahawk red with rust;
His bowstring, whose twang was death,
Now sings as it cuts the wind ;
But his memory is fresh in the land,
And his name with the names that we love.

4.
Go now and revenge him, my Boy !
That his Spirit no longer may hover by day
O'er the Imt where his bones are at rest,
Nor trouble our dreams in the night.
My Boy, I shall watch for the warrior's return.
And my soul will be sad
Till the steps of thy coming I see.

Westbury, 1799.

OCCASIONAL PIECES.

I.

THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL.

What I and not one to heave the pious sigh .''

Not one whose sorrow-swollen and aching eye.

For social scenes, for life's endearments fled,

Shall drop a tear, and dwell upon the dead ?

Poor wretched Outcast ! I will weep for thee,

And sorrow for forlorn humanity.

Yes, I will weep ; but not that thou art come

To the cold Sabbath of the silent tomb :

For pining want, and heart-consuming care.

Soul-withering evils, never enter there.

I sorrow for the ills thy life has known.

As through the world's long pilgrimage, alone.

Haunted by Poverty and woe-begone,

Unloved, unfriended, thou didst journey on;

Thy youth in ignorance and labor past.

And thine old age all barrenness and blast I

Hard was thy Fate, which, while it doom'd to woe,

Denied thee wisdom to support the blow ;

And robb'd of all its energy thy mind,

Ere yet it cast thee on thy fellow-kind,

Abject of thought, the victim of distress.

To wander in the world's wide wilderness.

Poor Outcast, sleep in peace ! the wintry storm
Blows bleak no more on thine unshelter'd form ;
Thy woes are past ; thou restest in the tomb ; —
I pause, — and ponder on the days to come.

Bristol, 1795.

H.

THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL.

It is the funeral march. I did not think
That there had been such magic in sweet sounds !
Hark ! from the blacken'd cymbal that dead tone ! —
It awes the very rabble multitude ;
They follow silently, their earnest brows
19

Lifted in solemn thought. 'Tis not the pomp

And pageantry of death that with such force

Arrests the sense; — the mute and mourning train,

The white plume nodding o'er the sable hearse,

Had past unheeded, or perchance awoke

A serious smile upon the poor man's cheek

At pride's last triumph. Now these measured

sounds,
This universal language, to the heart
Speak instant, and on all these various minds
Compel one feeling.

But such better thoughts
Will pass away, how soon ! and these who here
Are following their dead comrade to the grave,
Ere the night fall will in their revelry
Quench all remembrance. From the ties of life
Unnaturally rent, a man who knew
No resting-place, no dear delights of home,
Belike who never saw his children's face.
Whose children knew no father, — he is gone, —
Dropp'd from existence, like a blasted leaf
That from the summer tree is swept away,
Its loss unseen. She hears not of his death
Who bore him, and already for her son
Her tears of bitterness are shed ; when first
He had put on the livery of blood.
She wept him dead to her.

We are indeed
Clay in the potter's hand ! One favor'd mind,
Scarce lower than the Angels, shall explore
The ways of Nature, whilst his fellow-man,
Framed with like miracle, the work of God,
Must as the unreasonable beast drag on
A life of labor ; like this soldier here.
His wondrous faculties bestow'd in vain,
Be moulded by his fate till he becomes
A mere machine of murder.

And there are
Who say that this is well ! as God has made
All things for man's good pleasure, so of men
The many for the few ! Court-moralists,
Reverend lip-comforters, that once a week
Proclaim how blessed are the poor, for they
Shall have their wealth hereafter, and though now
Toiling and troubled, they may pick the crumbs
That from the rich man's table fall, at length
In Abraham's bosom rest with Lazarus.
Themselves meantime secure their good things

here.
And feast with Dives. These are they, O Lord !
Who in thy plain and simple Gospel see
All mysteries, but who find no peace enjoin'd,
No brotherhood, no wrath denounced on them
Who shed their bretliren's blood, — blind at noon-
day
As owls, lynx-eyed in darkness !

O my God !
I thank thee, with no Pharisaic pride
I thank thee, that I am not such as these ;
I thank thee for the eye that sees, the heart
That feels, the voice that in these evil days,
Amid these evil tongues, exalts itself,
And cries edoud against iniquity.

Bristol, 1795.

14G

OCCASIONAL PIECES.

III.

ON A LANDSCAPE OF CASPAR POUSSIN.

Gaspar ! how pleasantly thy pictured scenes
Beguile the lonely hour ! I sit and gaze
With lingering eye, till dreaming Fancy makes
The lovely landscape live, and the rapt soul
From the foul haunts of herded human-kind
Flics far away with spirit speed, and tastes
The untainted air, that with the lively hue
Of health and happiness illumes the cheek
Of mountain Liberty. My willing soul
All eager follows on thy faery flights.
Fancy ! best friend ; whose blessed witcheries
With cheering prospects cheat the traveller
0"er the long wearying desert of the world.
Nor dost thou, Fancy! with such magic mock
My heart, as, demon-born, old Merlin knew,
Or Alquif, or Zarzafiel's sister sage,
Who in her vengeance for so many a year
Held in the jacinth sepulchre entranced
Lisuart, the pride of Grecian chivalry.
Friend of my lonely hours ! thou leadest me
To such calm joys as Nature, wise and good,
Proffers in vain to all her wretched sons, —
Her wretched sons who pine with want amid
The abundant earth, and blindly bow them down
Before the Moloch shrines of Wealth and Power,
Authors of Evil. Well it is sometimes
That thy delusions should beguile the heart,
Sick of reality. The little pile
That tops the summit of that craggy hill
Shall be my dwelling : craggy is the hill
And steep ; yet through yon hazels upward leads
The easy path, along whose winding way
Now close embower'd I hear the unseen stream
Dash down, anon behold its sparkling foam
Gleam through the thicket; and ascending on,
Now pause me to survey the goodly vale
That opens on my prospect. Half way up,
Pleasant it were upon some broad, smooth rock
To sit and sun myself, and look below,
And watch the goatherd downyon high-bank'd path
Urging his flock grotesque ; and bidding now
His lean, rough dog from some near cliff go drive
The straggler ; while his barkings, loud and quick.
Amid their tremulous bleat, arising oft,
Fainter and fainter from the hollow road
Send their far echoes, till the waterfall.
Hoarse bursting from the cjtvern'd cliff beneath.
Their dying murmurs drown. A little yet
Onward, and I liave gain'd the upmost height.
Fair spreads the vale below : I see the stream
Stream radiant on beneath the noontide sky.
A passing cloud darkens the bordering steep.
Where the town-spires behind the castle-towers
Rise graceful ; brown the mountain in its shade.
Whose circling grandeur, part by mists conceal'd.
Part with white rocks resplendent in the sun.
Should bound mine eyes, — ay, and my wishes too,
For I would have no hope or fear beyond.
The empty turmoil of the worthless world,
Its vanities and vices, would not vex

My quiet heart. The traveller, who beheld
The low tower of the little pile, might deem
It were the house of God ; nor would he err
So deeming, for that home would be the home
Of peace and love, and they would hallow it
To Him. Oh, life of blessedness! to reap
The fruit of honorable toil, and bound
Our wishes with our wants ! Delightful thoughts,
That soothe the solitude of weary Hope,
Ye leave her to reality awaked.
Like the poor captive, from some fleeting dream
Of friends, and liberty, and home restored,
Startled, and listening as the midnight storm
Beats hard and heavy through his dungeon bars.

Balh, 1795.

IV.

WRITTEN

ON CHRISTMAS DAY, 1795. '

How many hearts are happy at this hour
In England ! Brightly o'er the cheerful hall
Flares the heaped hearth, and friends and kindred

meet.
And the glad mother round her festive board
Beholds her children, separated long
Amid the wide world's ways, assembled now —
A sight at which affection lightens up
With smiles the eye that age has long bedimm'd.
I do remember, when I was a child,
How my young heart, a stranger then to care,
With transport leap'd upon this holyday.
As o'er the house, all gay with evergreens.
From friend to friend with joyful speed I ran.
Bidding a merry Christmas to them all.
Those years are {)ast ; their pleasures and their pains
Are now like yonder convent-crested hill
That bounds the distant prospect, indistinct.
Yet pictured upon memory's mystic glass
In faint, fair hues. A weary traveller now
I journey o'er the desert mountain tracks
Of Leon, wilds all drear and comfortless,
Where the gray lizards in the noontide sun
Sport on the rocks, and where the goatherd starts,
Roused from his sleep at midnight when he hears
The prowling wolf, and falters as he calls
On Saints to save. Here of the friends I think
Who now, I ween, remember me, and fill
The glass of votive friendship. At the name
Will not thy cheek. Beloved, change its hue,
And in those gentle eyes uncall'd-for tears
Tremble .' I will not wish thee not to weep ;
Such tears are free from bitterness, and they
Who know not what it is sometimes to wake
And weep at midnight, are but instruments
Of Nature's common work. Yes, think of me.
My Edith, think that, travelling far away,
Thus I beguile the solitary hours
With many a day-dream, picturing scenes as fair
Of peace, and comfort, and domestic bliss,
As ever to the youthful poet's eye
Creative Fancy fashion'd. Think of me.

OCCASIONAL PIECES.

14 V

Though absent, thine ; and if a sigh will rise,
And tears, unbidden, at the thought steal down,
Sure hope will cheer thee, and the happy hour
Of meeting soon all sorrow overpay.

WRITTEN AFTER VISITING

THE CONVENT OF ARRABIDA,

NEAR SETUBAL, MARCH 22, 1796.

Happy the dwellers in this holy house;

For surely never worldly thoughts intrude

On this retreat, this sacred solitude.

Where Quiet with Religion makes her home.

And ye who tenant such a goodly scene,

How sliould ye be but good, where all is fair.

And where the mirror of the mind reflects

Serenest beauty ? O'er these mountain wilds'

The insatiate eye with ever-new delight

Roams raptured, marking now where to the wind

The tall tree bends its many-tinted boughs

With soft, accordant sound ; and now the sport

Of joyous sea-birds o'er the tranquil deep.

And now the long-extending stream of light

Where the broad orb of day refulgent sinks

Beneath old Ocean's line. To have no cares

That eat the heart, no wants that to the earth

Chain the reluctant spirit, to be freed

From forced communion with the selfish tribe

Who worship Mammon, — yea, emancipate

From this world's bondage, even while the soul

Inliabits still its corruptible clay, —

Almost, ye dwellers in this holy house.

Almost I envy you. You never see

Pale Misery's asking eye, nor roam about

Those huge and hateful haunts of crowded men.

Where Wealth and Power have built their palaces.

Fraud spreads his snares secure, man preys on man.

Iniquity abounds, and rampant Vice,

With an infection worse than mortal, taints

The herd of human-kind.

1 too could love,
Ye tenants of this sacred solitude.
Here to abide, and when the sun rides high,
Seek some sequestered dingle's coolest shade ;
And at the breezy hour, along tlie beach
Stray with slow step, and gaze upon the deep.
And while the breath of evening fann'd my brow.
And the wild waves with their continuous sound
Soothed my accustom'd ear, think thankfully
That I had from the crowd withdrawn in time.
And found a harbor — Yet may yonder deep
Suggest a less unprofitable thought.
Monastic brethren. Would the mariner.
Though storms may sometimes swell the mighty

waves,
And o'er the reeling bark with thunderincr crash
Impel the mountainous surge, quit yonder deep.
And rather float upon some tranquil sea.
Whose moveless waters never feel the gale,
In safe stagnation .' Rouse thyself, my soul !
No season this for self-deluding dreams ;

It is thy spring-time ; sow, if thou wouldst reap ;

Then, after honest labor, welcome rest,
Vn full contentment not to be enjoy 'd
Unless when duly earn'd. Oh, happy then
To know that we have walked among mankind
More sinn'd against than sinning! Happy then
To muse on many a sorrow overpast.
And think the business of the day is done.
And as the evening of our lives shall close.
The peaceful evening, with a Christian's hope
Expect the dawn of everlasting day.

Lisbon, 179G.

VI.

ON MY OWN MINIATURE PICTURE,

TAKEN AT TWO YEARS OF AGE.

And I was once like this ! that glowing cheek
Was mine, those pleasure-sparkling eyes ; that brow
Smootli as the level lake, when not a breeze
Dies o'er the sleeping surface ! — twenty years
Have wrought strange alteration ! Of the friends
Who once so dearly prized this miniature,
And loved it for its likeness, some are gone
To their last home ; and some, estranged in heart.
Beholding me, with quick-averted glance
Pass on the other side. But still these hues
Remain unalter'd, and these features wear
The look of Infancy and Innocence.
I search myself in vain, and find no trace
Of what I was : those lightly-arching lines
Dark and o'erchanging now ; and that sweet face
Settled in these strong lineaments! — There were
Who form'd high hopes and flattering ones of thee.
Young Robert! for thine eye was quick to speak
Each opening feeling : should they not have known.
If the rich rainbow on a morning cloud
Reflects its radiant dyes, the husbandman
Beholds the ominous glory, and foresees
Impending storms ! — They argued happily.
That thou didst love each wild and wondrous tale
Of faery fiction, and thine infant tongue
Lisp'd with delight the godlike deeds of Greece
And rising Rome ; therefore they deem'd, forsooth.
That thou shouldst tread Preferment's pleasant path.
Ill-judging ones! they let thy little feet
Stray in the pleasant paths of Poesy, [crowd.

And when thou shouldst have press'd amid the
There didst thou love to linger out the day.
Loitering beneath the laurel's barren shade.
Spirit of Spenser! was the wanderer wrong.'

Bristol, 1796.

VII.

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVORITE OLD
SPANIEL.

And they have drown'd thee, then, at last ! poor

Phillis !
The burden of old age was heavy on thee,

148

OCCASIONAL PIECES.

And yet thou sliouldst liave lived I What thougli

thine eye
Was dim, and watch'd no more with eager joy
Tlie wonted call that on thy dull sense sunk
With fruitless repetition? The warm Sun
Might .still have clieer'd tliy slumbers ; thou didst

love
To lick the hand that fed thee, and though past
Youth's active season, even Life itself
Was comfort. Poor old friend, how earnestly
Would I have pleaded for thee ! thou hadst been
Still the companion of my boyish sports ;
And as I roamd o'er Avon's woody cliti's.
From many a day-dream has thy short, quick bark
Recall'd my wandering soul. I have beguiled
Often the melancholy hours at school,
Sour'd by some little tyrant, with the thought
Of distant home, and I remember'd then
riiy faithful fondness ; for not mean the joy,
Returning at the happy holidays,
I felt from thy dumb welcome. Pensively
Sometimes have I remark'd thy slow decay,
Feeling myself changed too, and musing much
On many a sad vicissitude of Life.
Ah, poor companion ! when tliou followedst last
Thy master's parting footsteps to the gate
Which closed forever on him, thou didst lose
Thy truest friend, and none was left to plead
For the old age of brute fidelity.
But fare thee well ! Mine is no narrow creed ;
And He who gave thee being did not frame
The mystery of life to be the sport
Of merciless Man. There is another world
For all that live and move — a better one !
Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confine
Ini-inite Goodness to the little bounds
Of their own charity, may envy thee.

Brislol, 179G.

VIII.

RECOLLECTIONS OF A DAY'S JOUR-
NEY IN SPAIN.

Not less deliglited do I call to mind.
Land of Romance, thy wild and lovely scenes.
Than I beheld them first. Pleased I retrace
With memory's eye the placid Minho's course,
And catch its winding waters gleaming bright
Amid the broken distance. 1 review
Leon's wide vi^astes, and heights precipitous.
Seen with a pleasure not unmix'd with dread,
As the sagacious mules along tlie brink
Wound patiently and slow their way secure ;
And rude Galicia's hovels, and huge rocks
And mountains, where, when all beside was dim.
Dark and broad-headed the tall pines erect
Rose on the farthest emmence distinct.
Cresting the evening sky.

Rain now falls thick,
And damp and heavy is the unwholesome air ;
I by this friendly hearth remember Spain,

And tread in fancy once again the road,

Where twelve months since I held my way, and

thought
Of England, and of all my heart held dear,
And wish'd this day were come.

The morning mist,
Well I remember, hovered o'er the heath,
When with the earliest dawn of day we left
Tlie solitary Venta.* Soon the Sun
Rose in his glory ; scattcr'd by the breeze
The thin fog roll'd away, and now emerged
We saw where Oropesa's castled hiU
Tower'd dark, and dimly seen ; and now we pass'd
Torvalva's quiet huts, and on our way
Paused frequently, look'd back, and gazed around ;
Then journcy'd on, yet turn'd and gazed again.
So lovely was the scene. That ducal pile
Of the Toledos now with all its towers
Shone in the sunlight. Halfway up the hill,
Embower'd in olives, like the abode of Peace,
Lay Lagartina ; and the cool, fresh gale,
Bending the young corn on the gradual slope,
Play'd o'er its varying verdure. I beheld
A convent near, and could almost have thought
The dwellers there must needs be holy men,
For as they look'd around them, all they saw
Was good.

But when the purple eve came on.
How did the lovely landscape fill my heart !
Trees scatter'd among peering rocks adorn'd
The near ascent ; the vale was overspread
With ilex in its wintry foliage gay,
Old cork-trees through their soft and swelling

bark
Bursting, and glaucous olives, underneath
Whose fertilizing influence the green herb
Grows greener, and with heavier ears enrich'd
The healthful harvest bends. Pellucid streams
Through many a vocal channel from the hills
Wound through the valley their melodious way ;
And o'er the intermediate woods descried,
Naval-Moral's church tower announced to us
Our resting-place that night, — a welcome mark ;
Though willingly we loiter'd to behold
In long expanse Plasencia's fertile plain,
And the high mountain range which bounded it.
Now losing fast the roseate hue that eve
Shed o'er its summit and its snowy breast;
For eve was closing now. Faint and more faint
The murmurs of the goatherd's scattered flock
Were borne upon the air, and sailing slow
The broad-wing'd stork sought on the church tower

top
His consecrated nest. O lovely scenes !
I gazed upon you with intense delight.
And yet with thoughts that weigh the spirit down.
I was a stranger in a foreign land.
And knowing that these eyes should never more
Behold that glorious prospect. Earth itself
Appear'd the place of pilgrimage it is.

Bristol, January 15, 1797.

♦ Venta de Pcralbanegas.

OCCASIONAL PIECES.

149

IX.

TO MARGARET HILL.

WKITTEN FROM LONDON. 1798.

Margaret ! my Cousin, — nay, you mustnotsmile,

I love the homely and familiar phrase :

And I will call thee Cousin Margaret,

However quaint amid the measured line

The good old term appears. Oh ! it looks ill

When delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin,

Sir-ing and Madam-ing as civilly

As if the road between the heart and lips

Were such a weary and Laplandish way,

That the poor travellers came to the red gates

Half frozen. Trust me, Cousin Margaret,

For many a day my memory hath play'd

The creditor with me on your account,

And made me shame to think that I should owe

So long the debt of kindness. But in truth,

liike Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear

So heavy a pack of business, that albeit

I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours' race

Time leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were I

That for a moment you should lay to me

Unkind neglect ; mine, Margaret, is a heart

That smokes not; yet metliinks there should be some

Who know its genuine warmth. 1 am not one

Who can play otF my smiles and courtesies

To every Lady of her lap-dog tired

Who wants a plaything ; I am no sworn friend

Of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love ;

Mine are no mushroom feelings, which spring up

At once without a seed, and take no root,

Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere,

The little circle of domestic life,

I would be known and loved : the world beyond

Is not for me. But, Margaret, sure I think

That you should know me well ; for you and I

Grew up together, and when we look back

Upon old times, our recollections paint

The same familiar faces. Did I wield

The wand of Merlin's magic, I would make

Brave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship,

Ay, a now Ark, as in that other flood

Which swept the sons of Anak from the earth ;

The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle

Like that where whilom old Apollidon,

Retiring wisely from the troublous world,

Built up his blameless spell ; and I would bid

The Sea-Nymphs pile around their coral bowers,

Tiiat we might stand upon the beach, and mark

The far-off breakers shower their silver spray,

And hear the eternal roar, whose pleasant sound

Told us that never mariner should reach

Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle

We might renew the days of infancy,

And life, like a long childhood, pass away,

Without one care. It may be, Margaret,

That I shall yet be gather'd to my friends ;

For I am not of those who live estranged

Of choice, till at the last they join their race

In the family vault. If so, if I should lose,

Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge pack

So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine

Right pleasantly will end our pilgrimage.

If not, if I should never get beyond

This Vanity-town, there is another world

Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret,

I gaze at night into the boundless sky,

And think that I shall there be born agam,

The exalted native of some better star ;

And, like the untaught American, I look

To find in Heaven the things I loved on earth.

X.
AUTUMN.

Nay, William, nay, not so ! the changeful year,

In all its due successions, to my sight

Presents but varied beauties, transient all.

All in their season good. These fading leaves,

That with their rich variety of hues

Make yonder forest in the slanting sun

So beautiful, in you awake the thought

Of winter, — cold, drear winter, v/hen the trees

Each like a fleshless skeleton shall stretch

Its bare, brown boughs ; when not a flower shall

spread
Its colors to the day, and not a bird
Carol its joyance, — but all nature wear
One sullen aspect, bleak and desolate,
To eye, ear, feeling, comfortless alike.
To me their many-color'd beauties speak
Of times of merriment and festival.
The year's best holiday : I call to mind
The school-boy days, when in the falling leaves
I saw with eager hope the pleasant sign
Of coming Christinas ; when at morn I took
My wooden calendar, and counting up
Once more its often-told account, smoothed off
Each day with more delight the daily notch.
To you the beauties of the autumnal year
Make mournful emblems, and you think of man
Doom'd to the grave's long winter, spirit-broken,
Bending beneath the burden of his years,
Sense-dull'd and fretful, " full of aches and pains,"
Yet clinging still to life. To me they show
The calm decay of nature when the mind
Retains its strength, and in the languid eye
Religion's holy hopes kindle a joy
That makes old age look lovely. All to you
Is dark and cheerless ; you in this fair world
See some destroying principle abroad,
Air, earth, and water full of living things,
Each on the other preying ; and the ways
Of man, a strange, perplexing labyrinth.
Where crimes and miseries, each producing each,
Render life loathsome, and destroy tiie hope
That should in death bring comfort. Oh, my friend,
That thy faith were as mine ! that thou couldst see
Death still j)roducing life, and evil still
Working its own destruction ; couldst behold
The strifes and troubles of this troubled world
With the strong eye that sees the promised day

150

OCCASIONAL PIECES.

Dawn through this night of tempest ! All things,

then,
Would minister to joy ; then should thine heart
Bo lioal'd and harmonized, and thou wouldst feel
God, always, every where, and all in all.

Westbiiry, 1798.

XI.

THE VICTORY.

Hark — how the church-bells, with redoubling

peals.
Stun the glad ear ! Tidings of joy have come.
Good tidings of great joy ! two gallant ships
Met on the element, — they met, they fought
A desperate fight! — good tidings of great joy!
Old England triumph'd ! yet another day
Of glory for the ruler of the waves ! [cause, —

For those who fell, — 'twas in their country's
Tlicy jiave their passing paragraphs of praise,
And are forgotten.

There was one who died
[n that day's glory, whose obscurer name
No proud historian's page will chronicle.
Peace to his honest soul ! I read his name, —
'Twas in the list of slaughter, — and thank'd God
The sound was not familiar to mine ear.
But it was told me after, that this man
Was one whom lawful violence had forced
From his own home, and wife, and little ones,
Who by his labor lived ; that he was one
Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel
A husband's love, a father's anxiousness ;
That from the wages of his toil he fed
The distant dear ones, and would talk of them
At midnight when he trod the silent deck
With him he valued, — talk of them, of joys
Which he had known, — oh God I and of the hour
When they should meet again, till his full heart.
His manly heart, at times would overflow,
Even like a child's, with very tenderness.
Peace to his honest spirit ! suddenly
It came, and merciful the ball of death,
That it came suddenly and shattcr'd liiin.
Nor left a moment's agonizing thought
On those he loved so well.

He ocean-deep
Now lies at rest. Be Thou her comforter.
Who art the widow's friend ! Man does not know
What a cold sickness made her blood run back
When first she heard the tidings of the fight !
Man does not know with what a dreadful hope
She listened to the names of those who died ;
Man docs not know, or knowing will not heed,
With what an agony of tenderness
She gazed upon her children, and beheld
His image who was gone. O God ! be Thou,
Who art the widow's friend, her comforter !

Wesibury, 1798.

XII.

HISTORY.

Thou chronicle of crimes ! I read no more;
For I am one who willingly would love
His fellow-kind. O gentle Poesy,
Receive me from the court's polluted scenes,
From dungeon horrors, from the fields of war.
Receive me to your haunts, — that I may nurse
My nature's better feelings ; for my soul
Sickens at man's misdeeds I

I spake, when lo !
There stood before me, in her majesty,
Clio, the strong-eyed Muse. Upon her brow
Sate a calm anger. Go, young man, she cried,
Sigh among myrtle bowers, and let thy soul
Effuse itself in strains so sorrowful sweet,
That love-sick Maids may weep upon thy page,
Soothed with delicious sorrow. Oh shame! shame!
Was it for this I waken'd thy young mind.'
Was it for this 1 made thy swelling heart
Throb at the deeds of Greece, and thy boy's eye
So kindle when that glorious Spartan died .'
Boy ! boy ! deceive me not ! — What if the tale
Of murder'd millions strike a chilling pang;
What if Tiberius in his island stews,
And Philip at his beads, alike inspire
Strong anger and contempt ; hast thou not risen
With nobler feelings, — with a deeper love
For freedom .' Yes ; if righteously thy soul
Loathes the black history of human crimes
And human misery, let that spirit fill
Thy song, and it shall teach thee, boy ! to raise
Strains such as Cato might have deign'd to hear,
As Sidney in his hall of bliss may love.

Westbury, 1798.

xni.

WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY AFTER READING

THE SPEECH OF ROBERT EMMET,

ON HIS TRIAL AND CONVICTION FOR HIGH TRE.iSON,
SEPTEMBER, 1803.

" Let no man write my epitaph ; let my grave
Be uninscribcd, and let my memory rest
Till other times are come, and other men.
Who then may do me justice."*

Emmet, no !
No withering curse hath dried my spirit up.
That I should now be silent, — that my soul
Should from the stirring inspiration shrink.
Now when it shakes her, and withhold her voice,

* Tlieso wf re the words in liis speec-li : " Let tliere lie no
inscription upon my tomb. Let no man wrile my epitaph.
No m!in c.in write my epitaph. I am here ready to die. I
am not allowed to vindicate my character ; and when I am
prevented from vindicatin;; myself, let no man d ire lo calum-
niate me. Lot my character and my motives repose in ob-
scurity and peace, till other times and other men can do them
justice. Then shall my character be vindicated ; then may
my epitaph be written. I ii.ive doxe."

OCCASIONAL PIECES.

15J

Of that divincst impulse never more

AVorthy, if impious I withheld it now,

Hardening my heart. Here, here in this free Isle,

To whicli in thy young virtue's erring zeal

Thou wert so perilous an cncm}'-,

Here in free England shall an English hand

Build thy imperishable monument;

Oh, — to thine own misfortune and to ours,

By thine own deadly error so beguiled,

Here in free England shall an English voice

Raise up thy mourning-song. For thou hast paid

The bitter penalty of that misdeed ;

Justice hath done her unrelenting part.

If she in truth be Justice who drives on.

Bloody and blind, the chariot wheels of death.

So young, so glowing for the general good.

Oh, what a lovely manhood had been thine,

When all the violent workings of thy youth

Had passed away, hadst thou been wisely spared,

Left to the slow and certain influences

Of silent feeling and maturing thought !

How had that heart, — that noble heart of thine.

Which even now hadsnapp'd one spell, which beat

With such brave indignation at the shame

And guilt of France, and of her miscreant Lord, —

How had it clung to England ! With what love,

What Dure and perfect love, return'd to her.

Now worthy of thy love, the champion now

For freedom, — yea, the only champion now.

And soon to be the Avenger. But the blow

Hath fallen, the indiscriminating blow.

That for its portion to the Grave consign'd

Youth, Genius, generous Virtue. Oh, grief, grief I

Oh, sorrow and reproach ! Have ye to learn,

Deaf to the past, and to the future blind,

Ye who thus irremissibly exact

The forfeit life, how lightly life is staked.

When in distempered times the feverish mind

To strong delusion yields.' Have ye to learn

With what a deep and spirit-stirring voice

Pity doth call Revenge ? Have ye no hearts

To feel and understand how Mercy tames

The rebel nature, madden'd bv old wrono-s.

And binds it in the gentle bands of love.

When steel and adamant were weak to hold

That Samson-strength subdued !

Let no man write
Thy epitaph ! Emmet, nay ; thou shalt not go
Without thy funeral strain 1 Oh, young, and o-ood.
And wise, though erring here, thou shalt not go
Unhonor'd nor unsung. And better thus
Beneath that indiscriminating stroke,
Better to fall, than to have lived to mourn.
As sure thou wouldst, in misery and remorse,
Thine own disastrous triumph; to have seen,
If the Almighty at that awful hour
I lad turn'd away his face, wild Ignorance
Let loose, and frantic Vengeance, and dark Zeal,
And all bad passions tyrannous, and the fires
Of Persecution once again ablaze.
How had it sunk into thy soul to see,
Last curse of all, the ruffian slaves of France
In thy dear native country lording it!
How happier thus, in that heroic mood

That takes away the sting of death, to die,
By all the good and all the wise forgiven !
Yea, in all ages by the wise and good
To be remember'd. mourn'd, and honoi d still.

Keswick.

XIV.
THANKSGIVING FOR VICTORY.

[Written for Music, and composed by Shield.]

Glory to thee in thine omnipotence,
O Lord, who art our shield and our defence.
And dost dispense.
As seemeth best to thine unerring will,
(Which passeth mortal sense,)
The lot of Victory still ;
Edging sometimes with might the sword unjust;
And bowing to the dust
The rightful cause, that so such seeming ill
May thine appointed purposes fulfil ;
Sometimes, as in this late auspicious hour
For which our hymns we raise.
Making the wicked feel thy present power;
Glory to thee and praise.
Almighty God, by whom our strength was given !
Glory to thee, O Lord of Earth and Heaven !

Keswick, 1815.

XV.
STANZAS

WRITTEN IN LADY LONSDALe's ALBUM, AT LC"V-
THER CASTLE, OCTOBER 13, 1821.

1.

Sometimes, in youthful years.
When in some ancient ruin I have stood,
Alone and musing, till with quiet tears

I felt my cheeks bedew'd,
A melancholy thought hath made me grieve
For this our age, and humbled me in mind.

That it should pass away and leave

No monuments behind.

Not for themselves alone
Our fathers lived ; nor with a niggard hand
Raised they the fabrics of enduring stone.

Which yet adorn the land ;
Their piles, memorials of the mighty dead.
Survive them still, majestic in decay;

But ours are like ourselves, I said,

The creatures of a day.

With other feelings now,
Lowther I have I beheld thy stately walls.
Thy pinnacles, and broad, embattled brow,

And hospitable halls.

152

OCCASIONAL PIECES.

The sun those wide -spread battlements shall crest,
And liilent years unharming shall go by,

Till centuries in their course invest

Thy towers with sanctity.

4.

But thou the while shalt bear,
To after-times, an old and honored name,
And to remote posterity declare

Thy Founder's virtuous fame.
Fair structure ! worthy the triumphant age
Of glorious England's opulence and power,

Peace be thy lasting heritage,

And happiness thy dower !

XVI.

STANZAS

ADDRESSED TO W. R. TURNER, ESq., R. A., ON HIS
VIEW OF THE LAGO MAGGIORE FROM THE TOWN
OF ARONA.

[Engraved for the Keepsake of 1829.]

Turner, thy pencil brings to mind a day
When from Laveno and the Beuscer hill

1 over Lake Verbanus held my way.

In pleasant fellowship, with wind at will ;

Smooth were the waters wide, the sky serene.

And our hearts gladden'd with the joyful scene ; —

2.

Joyful, — for all things minister'd delight, —
The lake and land, the mountains and the vales;

The Alps their snowy summits rear'd in light,
Tempering with gelid breath the summer gales ;

And verdant shores and woods refresh'd the eye

That else had ached beneath that brilliant sky.

3.

To that elaborate island were we bound,
Of yore the scene of Borromean pride, —

Folly's prodigious work ; where all around,
Under its coronet and self-belied,

Look where you will, you cannot choose but see

The obtrusive motto's proud " Humility ! "

Far off the Borromean saint was seen.

Distinct, though distant, o'er his native town,

Where his Colossus with benignant mien
Looks from its station on Arona down :

To it the inland sailor lifts his eyes.

From the wide lake, when perilous storms arise.

But no storm threaten'd on that summer-day ;

The whole rich scene appoar'd for joyance made ;
With many a gliding bark the mere was gay.

The fields and groves in all their wealth array'd ;
I could have thought the Sun beheld with smiles
Those towns, and palaces, and populous islos.

6.
From fair Arona, even on such a day,

When gladness was descending like a shower.
Great painter, did thy gifted eye survey

The splendid scene ; and, conscious of its power.
Well hath thine hand inimitable given
The glories of the lake, and land, and heaven.

Keswick, 1828.

XVII.

ON A PICTURE BY J. M. WRIGHT, ESQ.

[Engraved for the Keepsake of 1829.]

1.

The sky-lark hath perceived his prison-door
Unclosed ; for liberty the captive tries :

Puss eagerly hath watched him from the floor.
And in her grasp he flutters, pants, and dies

2.

Lucy's own Puss, and Lucy's own dear Bird,
Her foster'd favorites both for many a day.

That which the tender-hearted girl preferr'd.
She in her fondness knew not, sooth to say.

For if the sky-lark's pipe were shrill and strong,
And its rich tones the thrilling ear might please.

Yet Pussybel could breathe a fire-side song
As winning, when she lay on Lucy's knees.

• 4.

Both knew ner voice, and each alike would seek
Her eye, her smile, her fondling touch to gain :

How faintly, then, may words her sorrow speak.
When by the one she sees the other slain.

5.
The flowers fall scatter'd from her lifted hand ;

A cry of grief she utters in affright;
And self-condemn'd for negligence she stands

Aghast and helpless at the cruel sight.

6.
Come, Lucy, let me dry those tearful eyes;

Take thou, dear child, a lesson not unholy,
From one whom nature taught to moralize,

Both in his mirth and in his melancholy.

I will not warn thee not to set thy heart
Too fondly upon perishable things ;

In vain the earnest preacher spends his art
Upon that theme ; in vain the poet sings.

It is our nature's strong necessity.

And this the soul's unerring instincts tell .

Therefore I say, let us love worthily,

Dear child, and then we cannot love too well.

OCCASIONAL PIECES.

153

i).
Better it is all losses to deplore,

Which dutiful affection can sustain,
Than that the heart should, in its inmost core.

Harden without it, and have lived in vain.

10.

TJiis love which thou hast lavish'd, and the woe
Which makes thy lip now quiver with distress,

Are but a vent, an innocent overflow.

From the deep springs of female tenderness.

11.

And somethinc I would teach thee from the grief
That tlius hath fill'd those gentle eyes with tears,

The which may be thy sober, sure relief,
When sorrow visits thee in after years.

12.

I ask not whither is the spirit flown

That lit the eye which there in death is seal'd ;
Our Fatlier hath not made that mystery known ;

Needless the knowledge, therefore not reveal'd.

13.

But didst thou know, in sure and sacred truth,
It had a place assign'd in yonder skies,

There, through an endless life of joyous youtli.
To warble in the bowers of Paradise, —

14.

Lucy, if then the power to thee were given
In that cold form its life to reengage,

Wouldst thou call back the warbler from its
Heaven
To be again the tenant of a cage ?

15.

Only that thou mightst cherish it again,
Wouldst thou the object of thy love recall

To mortal life, and chance, and change, and pain,
And death, which must be suffered once by all ?

16.

Oh, no, thou say'st : oh, surely not, not so !

I read the answer which those looks express ;
For pure and true affection, well I know,

Leaves in tlie heart no room for selfishness.

17.
Such love of all our virtues is the gem ;

We bring with us the immortal seed at birth :
Of heaven it is, and heavenly ; woe to them

Who make it wholly earthly and of earth !

18.
What we love perfectly, for its own sake

We love, and not our own, being ready thus
Whate'er self-sacrifice is ask'd, to make ;

That which is best for it, is best for us.

19.

O Lucy ! treasure up that pious thought !
It hath a bal-. i for sorrow's deadliest darts;
?0

And with true comfort thou wilt find it fraught.
If grief should reach thee in thy heart of hearts.

Buckland, 1828.

XVIIl.

My days among the Dead are past ;

Around me I behold.
Where'er these casual eyes are cast,

The mighty minds of old ;
My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.

2.

With them I take delight in weal,

And seek relief in woe ;
And while I understand and feel

How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bcdew'd
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the Dead ; with them

I live in long-past years ;
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,

Partake their hopes and fears,
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.

4.
My hopes are with the Dead ; anon

My place with them will be.
And I with them shall travel on

Through all Futurity :
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.

Keswick, 1818.

XIX.

IMITATED FROM THE PERSIAN.

Lord ! who art merciful as well as just.
Incline thine ear to me, a child of dust I
Not what I would, O Lord ! I offer thee,
Alas ! but what I can.
Father Almighty, who hast made me man,
And bade me look to Heaven, for Thou art there.
Accept my sacrifice and humble prayer.
Four things which are not in thy treasury,
I lay before thee, Lord, with this petition : —
My nothingness, my wants.
My sins, and my contrition.

Lowther Castle, 1828.

154

THE RETROSPECT.

THE RETROSPECT.

Corston is a small village about three miles from Batli, a little
to the left of the liristol road. The munor was parted with
hy the monks of Bath, about the roigu of Ilenry I., to Sir
lloger de St. Lo, in exchange. It continued in his family
till the reign of Edward II., when it passed to the family
of Inge, who are said to have been domestics to the St.
Los for several generations. In process of time, it came to
the Harringtons, and was by them sold to Joseph Langton,
whose daughter and heiress brought it in marriage to
William Gore Langton, Esq.

The church, which, in 1292, was valued at 7 marks, 9s. 4(?.,
was appropriated to the prior and convent of Bath ; and
a vicarage ordained here by Bishop John de Drokensford,
Nov. 1, 132J, decreeing that the vicar and his successors in
perpeluiim should have a hall, with chambers, kitchen, and
bakehouse, with a tliird part of the garden and curtilage,
and a pigeon-house, formerly belonging to the parsonage ;
that he should have one acre of arable land, consisting of
three parcels, late part of the demesne of the said parsonage,
together wiih coiiinion pasturage for his swine in such
places as the rector of the said church used that privilege ;
that he should receive from the prior and convent of
Balh one quarter of bread-corn yearly, and have all the
altarage, and all small tithes of beans and other blade
growing in the cottage enclosures and cultivated curtilages
throughout tlie parisli ; that the religious aforesaid and
their successors, as rectors of the said cliurch, should have
all the arable land, with a park belonging to the land, (the
acre above mentioned only excepted,) and receive all great
tithes, as well of corn as of hay ; the said religious to
sustain all burdens, ordinary and extraordinary, incumbent
on the church as rectors thereof. The prior of Bath had
a yearly pension out of the vicarage of 4s. — CulUnson's
Hist, of SoraerscUhire, vol. iii. pp. 341 — 347.

On as 1 journey through the vale of years,
By hopes enliven'd, or depress'd by fears,
Allow me, Memory, in thy treasured store.
To view the days that will return no more.
And yes ! before thine intellectual ray
The clouds of mental darkness melt away !
As when, at earliest day's awakening dawn,
The hovering mists obscure tlie dewy lawn.
O'er all the landscape spread their mfluence chill,
Hang o'er the vale and wood, and hide the hill ;
Anon, slow-rising, comes the orb of day;
Slow fade the shadowy mists and roll away ;
The prospect opens on the traveller's sight.
And hills and vales and woods reflect the living
light.

0 thou, the mistress of my future days.
Accept tliy minstrel's retrospective lays;
To whom the minstrel and the lyre belong,
Accept, my Edith, Memory's pensive song.
Of long-past days I sing, ere yet 1 knew

Or thought and grief, or happiness and you ;
Ere yet my infant heart had learnt to prove
The cares of life, the hopes and fears of love.

Corston, twelve years in various fortunes fled
Have past with restless progress o'er my head,
Since in thy vale, beneath the master's rule,

1 dwelt an inmate of the village school.

Yet still will Memory's busy eye retrace
Each little vestige of the 'veil-known place;
Each wonted haunt and scene of youthful joy,
Where merriment has checr'd tlie careless boy ;
Well-pleased will fancy still the spot survey
Where once he triumph'd in the boyish play.
Without one care where every morn he rose,
Where every evening sunk to cahn repose.

Large was the house, though fallen in course,

of fate.
From its old grandeur and manorial state.
Lord of the manor, here the jovial Squire
Once call'd his tenants round the crackling fire;
Here while the glow of joy suffused his face,
He told his ancient exploits in the chase.
And, proud his rival sportsmen to surpass,
He lit again the pipe, and fill'd again the glass.

But now no more was heard at early morn
The echoing clangor of the huntsman's horn;
No more the eager hounds with deepening cry
Leap'd round him as they knew their pastime

nigh ;
The Squire no more obey'd the morning call,
Nor favorite spaniels fill'd the sportsman's hall ;
For he, the last descendant of his race,
Slept with his fathers, and forgot the chase.
There now in petty empire o'er the school
The mighty Master held despotic rule ;
Trembling in silence all his deeds we saw,
His look a mandate, and his word a law;
Severe his voice, severe and stern his mien.
And wondrous strict he was, and wondrous wise
I ween.

Even now through many a long, long year I trace
The hour when first with awe I view'd his face ;
Even now recall my entrance at the dome, —
'Twas the first day I ever left my home !
Years intervening have not worn away
The deep remembrance of that wretched day,
Nor taught me to forget my earliest fears,
A mother's fondness, and a mother's tears ;
When close she press'd me to her sorrowing
As loath as even I myself to part ; [heart,

And I, as 1 beheld her sorrows flow,
With painful eff'ort hid my inward woe.

But time to youtliful troubles brings relief.
And each new object weans the child from grief.
Like April showers the tears of youth descend;
Sudden they fall, and suddenly they end.
And fresher pleasure cheers the following hour,
As brighter shines the sun after the April shower.

Methinks even now the interview 1 see.
The Mistress's glad smile, the Master's glee;
Much of my future happiness they said.
Much of the easy life the scholars led.
Of spacious play-ground and of wholesome air.
The best instruction and the tenderest care ;
And when I followed to the garden-door
My father, till through tears I saw no more.
How civilly they soothed my parting pain !
And never did they speak so civilly again.

HYMN TO THE PENATES.

155

Why loves tlio soul on earlier years to dwell,
When Memory spreads around her saddening

spell,
When discontent, with sullen gloom o'ercast.
Turns from the present, and prefers the past?
Why calls reflection to my pensive view
Each trifling act of infancy anew,
Each trifling act with pleasure pondering o'er,
Even at the time when trifles please no more?
Yet is remembrance sweet, though well I know
The days of childhood are but days of woe ;
Some rude restraint, some petty tyrant sours
What else should be our sweetest, blithest hours ;
Yet is it sweet to call those hours to mind, —
Those easy hours forever left behind;
Ere care began the spirit to oppress.
When ignorance itself was happiness.

Sucli was my state in those remember'd years,
When two small acres bounded all my fears ;
And therefore still with pleasure, I recall [hall,
The tapestried school, the bright, brown-boarded
The murmuring brook, that every morning saw
The due observance of the cleanly law ;
The walnuts, where, when favor would allow.
Full ofl I wont to search each well-stripp'd bough ;
The crab-tree, which supplied a secret hoard
With roasted crabs to deck the wintry board ;
These trifling objects then my heart possessed.
These trifling objects still remain impress'd ;
So when with unskill'd hand some idle hind
Carves his rude name within a sapling's rind.
In after years the peasant lives to see
The expanding letters grow as grows the tree ;
Though every winter's desolating sway
Shake the hoarse grove and sweep the leaves

away,
That rude inscription uneSaced will last,
Unalter'd by the storm or wintry blast.

Oh, while well pleased the letter'd traveller roams
Among old temples, palaces, and domes.
Strays with the Arab o'er the wreck of time
Where erst Palmyra's towers arose sublime.
Or marks the lazy Turk's lethargic pride.
And Grecian slavery on Ilyssus' side.
Oh, be it mine, aloof from public strife,
To mark the changes of domestic life.
The alter'd scenes where once I bore a part.
Where every change of fortune strikes the heart.
As when the merry bells with echoing sound
Proclaim the news of victory around.
Rejoicing patriots run the news to spread
Of glorious conquest and of thousands dead,
All join the loud huzza with eager breath.
And triumph in the tale of blood and death ;
But if extended on the battle-jjlain.
Cut off in conquest some dear friend be slain,
Affection then will fill the sorrowing eye,
And suff'cring Nature grieve that one should die.

Cold was the morn, and bleak the wintry blast
Blew o'er the meadow, when 1 saw thee last.
My bosom bounded as 1 wandered round.
With silent stop, the long-rcmcrnber'd ground,

Where 1 had loiter'd out so many an hour.
Chased the gay butterfly, and cuil'd the flower.
Sought the swift arrow's erring course to trace.
Or with mine equals vied amid the chase.
I saw the church where I had slept away
The tedious service of the summer day ;
Or, hearing sadly all the preacher told.
In winter waked and shiver'd with the cold.
Oft have my footsteps roam'd the sacred ground
Where heroes, kings, and poets sleep around ;
Oft traced the mouldering castle's ivied wall.
Or aged convent tottering to its fall ;
Yet never had my bosom felt such pain.
As, Corston, when I saw thy scenes again;
For many a long-lost pleasure came to view.
For many a long-past sorrow rose anew ;
Where whilom all were friends I stood alone.
Unknowing all I saw, of all I saw unknown.

There, where my little hands were wont to rear
With pride the earliest salad of the year;
Where never idle weed to spring was seen,
Rank thorns and nettles rcar'd their heads ob-
scene.
Still all around and sad, 1 saw no more
The playful group, nor heard the playful roar ;
There echoed round no shout of mirth and glee;
It seem'd as though the world were changed like
me !

Enough ! it boots not on the past to dwell, —
Fair scene of other years, a long farewell I
Rouse up, my soul ! it boots not to repine ;
Rouse up ! for worthier feelings should be thine ;
Thy path is plain and straight, — that light is

given, —
Onward in faith, — and leave tlie rest to Heaven.

Oxford, 1794.

HYMN TO THE PENATES.

Remove far from me vanity and lies ; g^ive me neither ■povcrti,
nor riches ; feed